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V 


SELECT  PLAYS 


CEJ^EI 


PERFORMED    AT  THE 

PRINCIPAL  THEATRES 


Winitttj  States  of  America. 


VOLUME  SECOND. 


CONTAINING, 

ROBBERS, 
FIESCO, 

cabal  and  LOVE. 


Baltimore  % 

Printed  and  Sold,  by 

WARNER  Sc  HANNA, 


A.  TRAGEDY, 

BY  FREDERICK  SCHILLER. 


Count  Moor. 
Charles,  |  ^  $ 
Francis,  3 
Spiegelberg, 
Schweitaer,  I 
Grimm,  I 

Schufterle,      >  Libert'mes,  ixho  become  Robbers 
Roller, 
Razman, 

Kosinski, 

Herman,  the  natural  Son  of  a  Nobleman. 
Daniel,  an  old  Servant  of  Count  Moor. 
Commissary. 


Amelia,  Niece  of  the  Count. 

Robbers,  Servatits,  iS'c. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Scene — An  Apartment  in  the  Castle  of  Count 
Moor. 

Enter  Count  and  Francis. 

Fra.  -BuT  are  you  well,  my  father?- — you 
look  so  pale — 

Cou.  Quite  well}  my  son.  What  tidings  do 
you  bring  ? 

Fra.  The  post  is  arrived.-— A  letter  from  Our 
correspondent  at  Leipzig — 

Cou.  (With  eager  anxiety,)  Does  it  contain  any 
account  of  my  son  Charles  ? 

Fra.  It  does  ;  but  I  fear,  if  you  be  ill — if  you 
feel  in  the  smallest  degree  disordered,  allow  me 
I  will  communicate  the  matter  to  you  at  a 
more  proper  time.  ( Half  aside.  J  This  intelligence 
is  ill  adapted  to  the  ear  of  a  feeble,  sickly  father. 

Cou.    Heavens  !  What  can  he  mean  ? 

Fra.  First  let  me  step  aside,  and  drop  a  tear 
of  pity  for  my  poor  lost  brother.  I  ought  to  be 
mute — for  he  is  your  son.  I  ought  to  conceal 
his  disgrace — for  he  is  my  brother  :  but  to  obey 
you  is  my  first  duty,  and  by  this  mournful  duty 
I  am  bound  to  speak — therefore  forgive  me. 

Cou.  Oh  Charles,  Charles  !  didst  thou  but  know 
how  thy  conduct,  tortures  thy  father  ; — didst  thou 
but  know  that  happy  tidings  of  thee  would  add  ten- 
years  to  my  existence — whereas,  all  I  have  lately 
heard  has  led  me,  with  rapid  strides,  to  the  grave* 
A  2 


6 


THE  R0E3ERS. 


Act  /. 


Fra.  If  my  father's  life  be  dependent  on  hap- 
py tidings  from  my  brother,  I  must  go.  Were 
I  to  state  all  I  know,  we  should,  even  to-day,  tear 
our  hair  over  your  corpse. 

Cou.  Stay.— -The  step  to  the  grave  is  but  short. 
—Be  it  so.  (Seats  himself.)  The  sins  of  the  fa- 
ther are  visited  even  unto  the  third  and  fourth  ge- 
neration.   Be  it  so. 

Fra.  ( Draws  a  tetter  from  his  pocket.)  You 
know  our  correspondent.  I  would  forfeit  this  fin- 
ger if  I  could  say  he  lied.  Collect  yourself.  For- 
give me,  if  I  do  not  allow  jou  to  read  this  letter  : 
you  must  not  know  all. 

Cou.  As  you  will.  My  son,  you  are  the  prop 
of  my  declining  years. 

Fra.  (Reads.)  "  Leipzig,  1st  of  TV! ay.  Your 
brother  seems,  at  length,  to  have  filled  the  mea- 
sure of  his  infamy,  unless  his  genius,  in  this  re- 
spect, soars  above  every  thing  I  can  comprehend. 
After  having  contracted  debts  to  the  amount  of 
forty  thousand  dollars," — a  decent  sum,  Sir — "af- 
ter having  seduced  the  daughter  of  a  rich  banker, 
and,  mortally  wounded  her  lover  in  a  duel,  he, 
last  night,  with  seven  of  his  dissipated  compani- 
ons, escaped  the  arm  of  justice  by  flight." — Fa- 
ther !  for  heaven's  sake,  father — how  do  you  feel  ? 

C<m.    Enough,  my  son  ;  read  no  further. 

Fra.  I  pity  you  sincerely*  "  Warrants  have 
been  issued  against  him  ;  the  injured  cry  aloud 
for  redress,  and  a  reward  is  offered  for  his  appre- 
hension. The  name  of  Moor" — No,  my  lips  shall 
not  destroy  my  father.  (Tears  the  letter.)  Do  not 
believe  it,  Sir.    Do  not  believe  one  syllable  of  it. 

Cou.  ( Overpowered  with  sorrow.)  My  name — . 
my  honourable  name— 

Fra.  Oh  that  he  did  not  bear  the  name  of  Moor  ! 
Oh  that  my  heart  did  not  feel  such  warm  affec- 
tion for  him  1  It  is  an  affection  which  I  cannot 

4 


Act  I. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


7 


eradicate,  though  I  feel  that  the  Eternal  Judge 
will  hereafter  condemn  it. 
Cou.  Oh  my  prospects — my  enchanting  visions  ! 

Fra.  Yes,  yes,  "  That  ardent  spirit,"  you  were 
wont  to  say,  44  which  already  appears  in  my  boy 
Charles,  which  already  makes  him  feel  the  force 
of  every  thing  sublime  and  beautiful.  That  can- 
dour which  beams  in  his  eye — that  sensibility— 
that  manly  courage — that  juvenile  ambition — that 
unconquerable  perseverance,  and  all  those  shining 
virtues  which  adorn  my  son,  will  one  day  make 
him  a  sincere  friend,  a  worthy  citizen,  an  illus- 
trious hero."  How  gloriously  is  your  prophecy 
fulfilled  !  The  ardent  spirit  has  shewn  itself,  and 
admirable,  indeed,  are  its  achievements.  The 
candour  is  transformed  to  impudence,  the  sensi- 
bility is  shewn  by  attachment  to  every  wanton 
Phryne.  Can  the  pleasures  of  six  years  have 
burnt  away  the  oil  of  this  illustrious  fiery  genius  ? 
Yes — so  completely,  that,  as  he  passes  through 
the  streets,  the  passers-by  exclaim- — "  C'est  l'a- 
mour  qui  a  fait  ca"  The  illustrious  hero  has,  in- 
deed, achieved  exploits  beyond  his  years,  and 
when  he  has  attained  the  age  of  maturity,  what 
may  we  not  expe6t  ?  Perhaps,  father,  you  may 
live  to  enjoy  the  happiness  of  beholding  him  at 
the  head  of  a  troop,  which  takes  its  station  in  the 
sacred  recesses  of  the  woods,  in  order  to  ease  the 
weary  traveller  of  his  burden.  Perhaps,  ere  you 
die,  you  may  behold  the  monument  erected  for 
him  between  heaven  and  earth.  Perhaps — Oh  my 
father  !  seek,  seek  another  name  ;  lest  the  boys, 
who  have  seen  the  effigy  of  your  son  in  the  mar- 
ket-place of  Leipzig,  should  point  the  finger  of 
derision  at  you. 

Cou,  Must  you,  too,  torment  me  thus  ?  How 
do  my  children  lacerate  my  heart. 

Fra.  You  perceive  that  I  have  a  spirit,  too  ; 
but  'tis  a  scorpion's  spirit.    "  Yes,"  you  were 


8 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  L 


vont  to  say,  "  that  poor  puppet  Francis,  that  weak 
creature" — with  twenty  other  titles,  pointing  out 
the  difference  between  me  and  Charles,  as  he  sat 
upon  your  knee,  and  pinched  your  cheek — "that 
inanimate  dolt  will  die,  decay,  and  be  forgotten, 
while  his  brother's  fame  will  fly  from  pole  to  pole." 
Yes,  with  uplifted  hands  I  thank  thee,  heaven, 
for  having  made  the  poor  puppet  Francis  unlike 
his  brother. 

Con.  Pardon  me,  my  son  ; — rail  not  against 
your  father,  when  he  owns  himself  deceived.  The 
God  who  doomed  that  Charles  should  cause  these 
tears,  will  wipe  them  from  my  eyes,  through  thee, 
my  Francis. 

Fra.  Yes,  dear  father;  Francis  will  wipe  them 
from  your  eyes  :  Francis  will  employ  his  life  in 
prolonging  yours.  You  shall  be  the  oracle  which 
guides  his  actions — the  mirror  in  which  he  sur- 
veys his  every  project.  No  duty  shall  be  too  sa- 
cred to  be  broken,  when  your  precious  life  de- 
pends on  the  transgression. 

Cou.  I  thank  you,  my  son.  Heaven  reward 
you  for  what  you  have  done,  and  will  do,  for  me  1 

Fra.  Confess  to  me,  then,  that  you  would  be 
a  happy  man,  if  you  were  not  obliged  to  own  my 
brother  as  your  son. 

Con.  Hold,  oh  hold  I  Avhen  the  nurse  first 
brought  him  to  me,  I  raised  him  in  my  arms  to- 
wards heaven,  and  cried  :  "  I  am  most  happy. " 

Fra.  And  feel  you  happy  now  ?  No,  you  envy 
the  condition  of  your  meanest  vassal.  Charles  is 
the  cause  of  your  sorrow  ;  as  long  as  he  remains 
your  son,  this  sorrow  will  increase,  and  at  last 
prove  fatal. 

Cou.    True  !  True  ! 

Fra.    Well,  then,  disinherit  this  son. 

Cou.  (Starts. J  Francis!  Francis!  what  say 
you  ?    Wish  you  that  I  should  curse  my  son  ? 


Jet.  I. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Fra.  That  do  I  not.  But  whom  do  you  call 
your  son?  That  man,  to  whom  you  have  given 
life,  and  whose  constant  endeavour  is  to  shorten 
your's  ? 

Con,  I  own  his  conduct  is  unnatural — but  still, 
still  he  is  my  child. 

Fra.  An  amiable  child  truly,  whose  constant 
study  is  to  put  and  end  to  his  father's  life.  Oh 
that  you  could  view  his  conduct  in  a  proper  light  i 
Oh  that  the  scales  would  fall  from  your  eyes  !  But 
no  :  your  indulgence  confirms  him  in  his  dissolute 
pursuits — your  supplies  of  money  justify  his  con- 
duel.  True  it  is  that  you  thus  remove  the  curse 
of  heaven  from  him,  but  on  you  father,  on  you 
will  it  fall  with  tenfold  vengeance. 

Cou.  It  is  just— most  just.  Mine,  mine  is  all 
the  guilt. 

Fra.  How  many  thousands,  after  having  drench- 
ed the  voluptuous  bowl  of  libertinism,  have  re- 
claimed by  suffering  ?  Is  not  the  corporal  pain, 
which  succeeds  every  excess,  a  proof  of  heavenly 
interference  ?  Shall  man  dare  to  avert  this  by  im- 
pious affection  ?  Shall  the  father  dare  to  destroy, 
by  ill-timed  tenderness,  the  pledge  entrusted  to 
his  care  ?  Consider,  sir— if  you  doom  him  to  un- 
dergo, for  a  short  time,  the  misery  he  has  pre- 
pared for  himself,  must  he  not  reform  ?  In  the 
other  case,  must  he  not  become  habituated  to 
vice  ? — Then  woe  be  to  the  father,  who,  by  coun- 
tenancing the  crimes  of  his  son,  has  destroyed  the 
intentions  of  a  higher  Power. 

Cou.  I'll  write  to  him — I'll  tell  him  that  I  aban- 
don him  for  ever. 

Fra.    Such  conduct  will  be  wise. 

Cou.    I'll  forbid  him  to  appear  again  before  me. 

Fra.  That  will  have  a  wholesome  effect  upon, 
him. 


10 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  I. 


Cou.    (In  a  tone  of  affection.)  Till  he  reforms. 

Fra.  Right,  sir.  But  may  he  not  come  with 
the  mask  of  a  hypocrite  ;  sue  for  your  compas- 
sion ;  with  tears  implore  your  pardon  ;  and,  after 
having  obtained  it,  may  he  not  depart,  and,  in 
the  arms  of  his  harlots,  laugh  at  his  old  father's 
weakness  ? — No,  sir ;  believe  me  he  will,  of  his 
own  accord,  return  as  soon  as  his  conscience  has 
acquitted  him. 

Cou.  I  must  write  to  him  without  delay.  ( Go- 
ing.) ■ 

Fra.  Hold  1  another  word,  my  father.  Your 
anger  may,  I  fear,  dictate  to  your  pen  expressi- 
ons which  may  drive  him  to  despair  ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand — will  he  not  deem  a  letter  written  by 
yourself  to  be  a  token  of  forgivness  ?  It  will,  there- 
fore, be  better  if  you  allow  me  to  write  the  letter. 

Cou.  Do  so,  Francis.  Alas  1  It  would  have 
broken  my  heart.    Tell  him — 

Fra.  ( Eagerly.)  You  wish  me  to  write,  then  ? 

Cou.  Yes.  Tell  him  that  he  has  made  me 
shed  a  thousand  tears  of  blood — that  he  has  made 
me  toss  upon  my  couch  a  thousand  sleepless  nights 
—but  he  is  my  son — do  not  drive  him  to  despair. 

Fra.  Retire  to  bed,  dear  father.  You  are  much 
agitated. 

Cou.  Tell  him  that  his  father's  bosom — but  do 
not,  do  not  drive  him  to  despair.  (Exit. 

Fra.  ( looks  after  him  with  derision.)  Yes.  Con- 
sole thyself,  poor  dotard,  for  his  loss.  Thou  shalt 
never  clasp  him  in  thy  arms.  The  gulph  between 
thee  and  thy  darling  son  is  as  wide  as  that  which 
separates  heaven  from  hell.  He  was  torn  from 
thy  arms,  ere  thou  hadst  determined  that  it  was 
thy  will.  I  must  collect  these  scraps.  How  easily 
might  any  one  recognize  my  hand  1  (Gathers  the 
pieces  of  the  letter  which  he  had  torn.)  What  a 
wretched  bungler  should  I  be,  had  I  not  yet  dis 


Ac*  I. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


1  1 


covered  the  means  of  alienating  a  father  from  his 
son ;  even  were  they  bound  by  chains  of  iron 
to  each  other.  Yes,  honoured  father,  I  have 
drawn  a  magic  circle  round  thee,  which  thy  darling 
cannot  overstep.  Sorrow  will  soon  do  its  duty, 
and  close  thy  mortal  career.  From  her  heart  too 
I  must  tear  this  Charles,  even  if  half  her  life  de- 
pended on  it.  (Walks  to  and  fro  with  rapid  strides.  J 
Nature,  I  have  great  right  to  hate  thee,  and,  by 
my  soul,  I'll  be  revenged.  Why  hast  thou  loaded 
me  with  such  a  burden  of  deformity  ?  Why  me 
alone  of  all  that  bear  the  name  of  Moor  ?  Hell 
and  furies,  why  me  alone  ?  But  'tis  well.  Thou 
didst  damn  me  while  I  was  begotten — and,  in  re- 
turn, I  vow  eternal  hatred  against  thee.  I  see  no 
other  human  being  like  me — therefore  will  I  blast 
thy  works.  The  sweet  fraternity  of  souls  I  can- 
not know — the  soft  persuasive  eloquence  of  love  I 
cant  use.  Force,  therefore, — force,  and  cunning 
must  assist  me.  With  them  I'll  crush  each  crea- 
ture that  opposes  me,  'till  I  have  gained  the  height 
of  my  ambition. 

Enter  Amelia  slowly. 

She  comes. — Ha!  I  perceive,  by  her  step,  that 
the  medicine  takes  effect. — I  do  not  love  her  ;  but 
I  am  resolved  that  no  one  else  shall  revel  in  her 
charms.   In  my  arms  shall  they  wither,  untasted, 

unenjoyed  by  man  Ha !  What  is  she  doing 

now?  (Amelia,  without  perceiving  Fva.Yic\s,  destroys 
a  nosegay,  and  tramples  on  it.  Francis  approaches 
with  a  malicious  mine.)  What  crime  have  these 
poor  violets  committed  ? 

Ayne. — ( Starts  and  measures  him  with  a  long  look.) 
—You  here  !  'Tis  as  I  wished.  You  alone,  of  all 
mankind,  did  I  wish  to  see. 

F rcu  Transcendent  bliss  !  me  alone  of  all  man- 
kind! 


13 


THE  ROBEKRS. 


Ad  I, 


Am?*  Yes :  I  have  panted  for  this  moment, 
and  will  enjoy  it.  Stay,  I  conjure  you — stay,  that 
I  may — curse  thee,  villain. 

Fra,  What !  Treat  me  thus  !  You  have  mis- 
taken the  object  of  your  hate.    Go  to  my  father. 

Ame,  Father  ! — true.  A  father  who  dooms  his. 
son  to  eat  the  food  of  sorrow  and  depair,  while  he 
regales  himself  with  dainties,  quaffs  delicious 
wines,  and  rests,  his  palsied  frame  on  beds  of 
down.  Shame  on  you,  monster — shame  on  you, 
brutal  wretches  !  How  could  a  father  be  persuad- 
ed thus  to  treat  his  only  son  ! 

Fra,    His  only  son  !  I  thought  that  he  had  two. 

Ame,  Yes,  he  deserves  such  sons  as  thou  art. 
When  stretched  upon  the  bed  of  death,  in  vain 
will  he  stretch  forth  his  withered  hand,  in  hopes 
to  feel  the  hand  of  Charles.  With  horror  will  he 
shrink  from  the  icy  touch  of  Francis.  Yes,  wretch, 
one  transport  still  awaits  thee — a  dying  father's 
curse. 

Fra,  Your  mind  is  disordered,  dear  Amelia. 
I  lament  your  fate. 

Ame,  Dost  thou  lament  thy  brother's  fate  ? 
No  :  monster,  thou  hatest  him.  I  hope  thou  hat- 
est  me  too. 

Fra,    Oh,  Amelia  !  I  love  you  more  than  life. 

Ame.  If  this  be  true,  you  surely  cannot  deny 
me  one  request. 

Fra.    Never,  never  !  ask  any  thing. 

Ame,  The  boon  is  small. — (  With  dignity ) — All 
I  require  is,  that  thou  wilt  hate  me.  Shame 
would  overpower  me,  were  I  to  know  that,  while 
I  thought  of  Charles,  thou  didst  not  hate  me.  Give 
me  thy  promise,  and  begone. 

Fra,  Lovely  enthusiast  ?  Flow  does  that  firm,' 
immutable  affection  charm  me  ! — ( Placing  his 
hand  on  Amelia's  heart,) — Here,  here  reigned  mr 
brother.    Charles  was  the  god  of  this  temple.— In 


Act  1. 


THE  ROBEERS. 


13 


■motion,  or  on  her  pillow,  Charles  was  the  idol  of 
Amelia's  fancy.  In  Charles  creation  seemed  to 
be  concentrated. — 

Ame, — (Much  agitated.) — 'Tis  true — I  own  it. 
Yes,  in  defiance  of  you,  barbarous  wretches  as 
you  are,  I'll  tell  it  to  the  world — I  love  him. 
m  Fra,    Inhuman  villain,  thus  to  reward  her  ten- 
der passion — to  forget  her  ! 

Ame,    What  ?  Forget  me  ! 

Fra.  Did  you  not  place  a  ring  upon  his  finger 
— A  diamond  ring,  as  a  pledge  of  your  fidelity  ? 
But  what  youth  can  resist  the  fascinating  arts  of 
a  wanton?  Who  can  blame  him?  He  had  no  mo- 
ney— and  she  rewarded  him,  no  doubt,  for  his 
liberality,  by  many  a  warm  embrace. 

Ame. — ( Incensed. ) — My  ring  to  a  wanton  ! 

Fra,    $hame  overtake  him  I  Yes. 

Ame, — (Violently.) — My  ring  I 

Fra.  No  other,  Amelia.  Oh,  had  you  placed 
such  a  jewel  on  my  finger,  death  himself  should 
not  have  robbed  me  of  the  treasure.  'Tis  not  the 
sparkling  diamond,  nor  the  costly  workmanship, 
but  love,  which  gives  value  to  the  present. — You 
are  in  tears,  sweet  girl.  Damned  be  the  wretch 
who  made  them  How.  Alas  1  did  you  know  all  ; 
were  you  to  see  him  in  his  present  state  ? 

Ame,    Monster  !  In  what  state  ? 

Fra,  Dear  Amelia,  do  not  ask  me. — (As  if 
aside,  but  audibly, ) — Well  would  it  be  for  the  li- 
bertine and  the  debauchee  could  he  conceal  his 
crimes  from  the  world's  observation  :  but  they  are 
horribly  betrayed  by  the  dim,  livid  eye,  the  death- 
like features,  faltering  voice,  projecting  bones, 
and  tottering  frame.    The  poison  pierces  to  the 

very  marrow,  and  disgusting  dreadful 

thought  ,.—r-(  Turns  towards  her,) — Amelia,  you 
recollecT  the  wretch  who  expired  in  our  hospital. 
You  once  looked  at  him,  but  modestv  forbade  that 
(vol.  ii.)  B 


the  look  should  be  more  than  momentary.  Recal 
the  image  of  that  wretch  to  your  mind,  and  think 
you  see — my  brother  Charles.  Yes,  such  is  he. 
His  kisses  are  infectious — poison  is  on  his  lips. 
Ame.  Infamous  slanderer  ! — (Tarns  aivqy.J 
Fra,  Does  this  weak  description  fill  you  with 
horror?  Go  then — behold  himself — behold  yow 
amiable,  angelic  Charles — go — inhale  the  balsam 
of  his  breath — feast  on  the  ambrosial  air  which 
issues  from  his  lips — (Amelia  conceals  her  face.) 

]  low  voluptuous  to  embrace  him!  But  is  it 

not  unjust  to  condemn  a  person  on  account  of  his 
external  appearance  ? — May  not  a  great  soul  beam 
from  a  miserable  cripple,  like  a  diamond  from 

a  dung-hill  !  {With  a  malicious  smile.)  True 

it  is,  if  debauchery  undermines  the  firmness  of 
character,  if  virtue  makes  her  escape  when  mo» 
desty  is  banished,  as  the  perfume  leaves  the  wi- 
thered rose — if  the  mind  becomes  a  cripple  with 
the  body — 

Ante, — (Transported.)  Ha!  Charles  !  now  I  know 
thee  again.  Thou  art  still  the  same.  Villain, 
it  cannot  be.  Thy  tale  is  false. — (Francis  stands 
awhile  lost  in  thought,  then  suddenly  turns,  and  is 
going.) — Whither  so  quick.  Art  thou  ashamed, 
because  detected. 

Fra, — {Concealing  his  face.) — Let  me  weep  un- 
molested.— Hard-hearted  father — thus  to  consign 
to  misery  the  worthiest  of  his  sons.  Let  me  has- 
ten to  him,  dear  Amelia.  I'll  fall  at  his  feet,  and, 
on  my  knees,  implore  that  he  will  transfer  his 
curse  to  me — that  he  will  disinherit  me — my  blood 
— my  life — :my  every  thing. 

Ame, — {Fails  on  his  neck.) — Brother  of  my 
Charles  1  Best,  dearest  Francis  ! 

Fra,  Oh,  Amelia,  how  do  I  love  you  for  your 
unshaken  constancy  towards  Charles.  Pardon 
me  for  having  thus  put  your  affection  to  the  test. 
How  sweetly  have  you  justified  my  wishes.  These 


Act  I. 


THE   ROB  2  Ell  S. 


15 


tears,  these  sighs,  this  praiseworthy  indignation 
— all,  all  prove  our  souls  to  be  congenial. 

Ame. — {Shakes  her  head.) — No,  no.  By  yon 
chaste  light  of  heaven,  thou  canst  not  feel  like 
Charles.  His  sensibility  and  spirit  are  alike  un- 
known to  thee. 

m  Fra.  The  evening  which  preceded  his  depar- 
ture for  Leipzig  was  silent  and  serene.  He  led 
me  to  the  arbour,  where  you  and  he  so  often  had 
exchanged  soft  vows  of  love. — Long  we  remained 
silent,  till  at  length  he  seized  my  hand,  and  whis- 
pered in  a  voice  which  his  tears  almost  choaked  : 
"  I  leave  my  Amelia — I  cannot  account  for  my 
sensations — but  I  fear  that  I  leave  her  for  ever. 
Do  not  forsake  her,  brother.  Be  her  friend — her 

Charles — should  Charles  never  return  {Falls 

at  her  feet,  and  kisses  her  hand  with  fervour,) — And 
never  will  he  return — Amelia,  I  acceded  to  his 
wishes,  and  he  bound  me  to  the  observance  cf 
them  by  an  oath. 

Ame.  {Starts  back.)  Traitor  !  Have  I  detected 
thee  ?  In  that  very  arbour  did  he  conjure  me,  that, 

if  death  divided  us,  no  other  passion  should  

W retch  ;  villain  most  accursed  i  Away  from  me  ! 

Fra.    Amelia,  you  do  not  know  me. 

Ame.  Oh,  I  know  thee  well.  Wouldst  thou 
convince  me  that  Charles  could  entrust  his  se- 
crets to  a  wretch  like  thee  I  Begone  instantly. 

Fra.    You  insult  me. 

Ame.  Begone,  I  say.  Thou  hast  robbed  me 
of  a  costly  hour.  May  it  be  deducted  from  thy  life  i 

Fra.    You  hate  me,  then  ? 

Ame.    I  abhor  thee.  Begone. 

Fra.  (Furiously.)  Enough!  Soon  shall  you 
tremble  for  this  conduct.  You  shall  feel  what  it 
is  to  prefer  a  beggar.  (Exit. 

Ame.  Go,  villain.  I  am  now  again  with  Charles. 
— Beggar,  said  he  ?  I  would  not  exchange  the 
tatters  which  hang  upon  him,  for  the  purple  of 


16 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  I. 


an  emperor.  How  dignified  must  be  the  look  with 
which  he  begs  ! — A  look,  which  instantly  annihi- 
lates the  pageantry  and  splendor  of  the  great. 
Down  to  the  dust,  ye  splendid  baubles  I  (Tears 
Iter  necklace,)  Ye  rich  and  mighty  barons,  may 
your  gold,  your  jewels,  and  your  banquets  be 
your  curse  ! — Charles  1  Charles  !  Now,  I  deserve 
thee.  ( Exit. 

Scene  changes  to  an  inn  on  the  borders  of  Saxonj. 
Charles  is  discovered  walking  to  and  fro  in  great 
agitation. 

Cha.  Where  can  these  fellows  tarry  !  Surely 
they  have  been  on  horseback.  Holla  !  More  wine 
here  ! — Evening  approaches,  and  the  post  is  not 
yet  arrived.  ( Laying  his  hand  en  his  breast.)  How 
my  heart  beats  ! — Wine,  wine,  I  say  ! — I  am  dou- 
bly in  want  of  courage  to-day,  whether  to  bear 
joyful  or  disastrous  tidings.  (Wine  is  brought — 
he  drinks,  and  strikes  the  table  with  violence.)  What 
a  damned  inequality  prevails  throughout  this 
world  !  While  many  a  miser  hoards  whole  chests 
of  gold,  poverty  lays  her  leaden  hand  upon  the 
bold  enterprising  flights  of  youth.  Fellows,  whose 
income  is  incalculable,  torment  me  hourly  to  dis- 
charge my  paltry  debts,  and  though  I  press  their 
hands,  and  beg  them  to  allow  me  but  a  single 
day — all  is  in  vain.  Entreaties,  oaths,  and  tears, 
have  no  effect  on  their  impenetrable  souls. 

Enter  Spiegelberg. 

Spi.  Damnation  !  One  stroke  follows  clo  ie  up- 
on another.     Have  you  heard  the  news,  Moor  ? 

Cha.    No — What  has  happened  ? 

Spi,  Happened  !  Read  this  paper,  which  is 
just  arrived  by  the  post.  Peace  is  proclaimed 
throughout  Germany.  The  devil  take  all  monks, 
say  L 


Act  L 


THE  ROBBERS. 


17 


Cha.    Peace  throughout  Germany  ! 

Spi.  Ay. — The  news  is  enough  to  make  a  man 
hang  himself.  Club-law  is  at  an  end.  All  con- 
tests are  forbidden  on  pain  of  death.  Hell  and 
furies  !  Cut  your  throat,  Moor.  Pens  will  scrib- 
ble now,  where  swords  used  to  be  employed. 

Cha.  ( Casts  his  sword  from  him.)  Let  cow- 
ards, then,  head  our  regiments,  and  men  break 
their  swords. — Peace  throughout  Germany  !  The 
news  has  branded  thee  with  infamy  for  ever,  Ger- 
many. Goose-quills  usurp  the  place  of  swords  ! 
I'll  not  think  of  it.  Shall  I  curb  my  ardent  spirit, 
and  submit,  without  resistance,  to  despotic  laws  ? 
Peace  throughout  Germany  !  Damned  be  the 
peace,  which  would  make  a  man  crawl  like  a  snail 
upon  the  earth,  when  he  feels  that  he  could  over- 
top the  eagle  in  his  flight  !  Peace  never  produced 
a  great  man — war  has  made  many  a  hero.  Oh 
that  the  spirit  of  our  fathers  would  revive  !  Place 
me  at  the  head  of  a  few  bold  determined  Germans. 
— Germans  !  No,  no,  no.  That  cannot  be.  Ger- 
many must  fall.  Her  hour  is  come.  Not  one  spark 
of  resolution  animates  the  descendants  of  Barba- 
rossa.  I  will  forget  the  use  of  arms,  and  wander 
in  my  peaceful  native  groves. 

Spi.  What,  in  the  devil's  name,  do  you  mean  ? 
Why,  you  surely  would  not  act  the  part  of  the 
prodigal  son — you,  a  fellow,  who  has  written  more 
legible  characters  with  his  sword,  than  half  a  do- 
zen quill-drivers  could  scribble  in  a  leap-year  1 
Pshaw  I  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
Misfortunes  must  never  transform  a  hero  into  a 
coward. 

Cha.  Yes,  Maurice,  I  will  a6l  the  part  of  the 
repentant  prodigal.  You  may  call  it  weakness  in 
me  to  revere  my  father.  It  is  the  weakness  of  a 
man  ;  and  he  who  does  not  feel  it,  must  be  exalted 


18 


T II  E    UOBB  E R  S 


Ad  I. 


above  humanity,  or  degraded  below  it.  I  will  pur- 
sue the  middle  course. 

Spi*  Go,  go — You  are  no  longer  the  Charles 
Moor,  whom  once  I  knew.  Don't  you  remember 
how  often  you  have  laughed  at  the  old  miser,  with 
the  glass  in  your  hand.  Have  I  not  heard  you 
say,  a  thousand  times,  "  Let  him  enjoy  his  hoards 
of  wealth,  while  I  enjoy  my  bottle."  Don't  you 
remember  this,  I  say  ?  'Twas  spoken  like  a  man, 
but—, — 

Cha.  Damnation  overtake  thee,  Maurice,  for 
reminding  me  of  such  expressions  !  Damnation 
overtake  myself  for  having  uttered  them  !  But,  no 
' — I  was  intoxicated.  My  heart  knew  not  what 
escaped  my  lips. 

Spi.  (Shakes  his  head.  J  Charles,  it  is  impos- 
sible you  can  be  serious.  Come,  confess  now, 
that  necessity  compels  you  to  think  of  this  plan. 
Pshaw  !  never  fear,  man,  happen  what  may.  True 
courage  grows  in  proportion  to  the  increase  of 
danger.  Fate  stems  resolved  to  make  great  men 
of  us,  by  casting  so  many  impediments  m  our  way. 

Cha.  ( In  a  peevish  tone.)  I  know  not  of  what 
use  courage  would  be  now. 

Spi*  Of  much.  What !  Would  you  suffer  your 
talents  to  moulder  and  decay  ?  Would  you  bury 
your  great  abilities  in  the  earth  ?  Do  you  fancy 
that  your  genius  is  incapable  of  any  thing  beyond 
your  petty  exploits  at  Leipzig  ?  Let  us  hurry  to- 
gether into  the  bustle  of  the  world.  Paris  and 
London  are  the  places  for  us.  There,  if  you  greet 
a  person  by  the  title  of  an  honest  man,  you  are 
sure  to  feel  his  fist.  There,  a  man  of  genius  may 
carry  on  the  trade  by  wholesale.  Yes — you  will 
stare,  I  promise  you,  when  you  see  how  gloriously 
writing  is  counterfeited — dice  loaded — cards  palm- 
ed— locks  picked — strong  boxes  gutted.  Huzza  I 
Paris  and  London  for  ever !  I'll  be  your  tutor. 


Act  I. 


THE  ROBBER,-,. 


1* 


Hang  the  miserable  dolt,  who  would  starve  rather 
than  belong  to  the  crook-fingered  tribe. 

Cha.  (With  asperity.)  Have  you  reached  such 
a  length  as  this  ? 

Spi.  I  could  almost  fancy  that  you  doubt  my 
powers.  Let  me  once  become  warm,  and  you 
shall  see  miracles.  Your  shallow  understanding 
will  be  truck  with  astonishment,  when  my  preg- 
nant genius  shall  bring  forth.  ( Striking  the  table.) 
Ant  Ccesar,  aut  nihil.    You  shall  be  jealous  of  me. 

Cha.     ( Keenly  surveying  him.)     Maurice  ! 

Spi.  (With  ardour.)  Yes,  you  shall  be  jea- 
lous of  me — you,  and  all  our  comrades.  I'll  de- 
vise schemes  which  shall  amaze  and  confound 
you.  What  mighty  plans  are  dawning  in  my  mind  ! 
What  gigantic  projects  fill  this  teeming  brain  I 
Cursed  be  the  lethargy  (striking  his  forehead) 
which  hitherto  confined  my  powers,  and  darkened 
all  my  prospects  !  I  am,  now,  awake — I  feel  who 
I  am,  and  what  I  must  become. — Le  ave  me,  ail 
of  you.    You  shall  live  from  my  bounty. 

Cha.  You  are  a  fool.  The  wine  has  mounted 
into  your  brain. 

Spi*  (With  increasing  ardour.)  "  Spiegelberg," 
you  will  say,  "  are  you  concerned  with  the  devil, 
Spiegelberg  I" — "  What  a  pity  it  is,  Spiegelberg," 
the  king  will  say,  "that  you  were  not  a  general 
when  the  Turks  attacked  us  I  You  would  have  soon 
made  them  beat  a  retreat." — "  What  a  lamenta- 
ble circumstance  it  is,"  I  hear  the  doctors  cry, 
"that  this  young  man  did  not  study  physic  !  His 
discoveries  would  have  immortalized  him  as  the 
first  of  our  profession." — "  Alas  !  had.  he^  devoted 
his  mind  to  finance,"  will  the  statesman  exclaim, 
"  he  would  have  converted  even  stones  to  gold." 
—The  name  of  Spiegelberg  will  be  echoed  from 
east  to  west — from  north  to  south — and  w01e  he 
soars  with  outspread  wings  to  the  temple  of  re- 


20 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Ad  L 


nown,  you,  paltry  reptiles,  shall  be  crawling  in 
the  mire 

Cha.  Success  attend  you  !  Mount  to  the  sum- 
mit of  fame  by  the  ladder  of  infamy,  if  such  be 
your  inclination.  More  honourable  happiness  awaits 
me,  in  the  shade  of  my  paternal  groves,  and  in 
the  arms  of  my  Amelia.  A  week  has  now  elaps- 
ed since  I  wrote  to  entreat  my  father's  pardon. 
I  have  not  concealed  from  him  the  smallest  cir- 
cumstance, and  forgiveness  is  ever  the  reward  of 
sincerity.  Let  us  take  lerive  of  each  other,  Mau- 
rice. We  shall  never  meet  again  after  to-day.  The 
post  is  arrived.  My  father's  pardon  is  already  with- 
in the  walls  of  this  town. 

Enter  Schw^eizeIi,  Grimm,  Roller,  and  Schuf- 

TERLE. 

RoL  Have  you  heard  that  there  are  officers  in 
search  of  us  I 

Gri,  And  that  we  may  expec~\  every  minute 
to  be  apprehended. 

Cha.  I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  it.  I  care  not 
what  happens.  Have  you  seen  Razman  ?  I  ex- 
peel  he  has  a  letter  for  me. 

RoL  I  dare  say  he  has,  for  I  observed  him  in 
search  of  you  some  time  ago. 

Cha,    Where,  where  is  he  ?  (Going.) 

RoL  Stay.  I  told  him  to  come  hither.  Why, 
how  now  ?  You  tremble. 

Cha.  Not  I,  indeed.  Why  should  I  tremble  ? 
This  letter — rejoice  with  me,  my  friends— J  am 
the  happiest  man  on  earth.  Why  should  I  trem- 
ble ?  (Schw.  seats  himself  in  the  chair  previously 
occupied  by  Spi.  and  drinks  his  wine. ) 

Enier  Razman. 

ChW  (Flies  towards  him.)  My  friend  !  The 
letter  !  the  letter  I 


Act  I. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


'21 


Raz.  (Delivers  the  letter,  which  Charles  hastily 
tears  open,)  What  now  I  Why,  you  are  as  pale 
as  a  white-washed  wall. 

Cha,    My  brother's  hand  ! 

Rol.    What's  the  matter  with  Spiegelberg  ? 

Gri.  The  fellow  has  lost  his  senses.  He  is 
troubled  with  St.  Vitus's  dance. 

Schw.  He  seems  to  me  as  if  he  were  making 
verses. 

Rol.  Spiegelberg  !  Holla !  Spiegelberg  !  Damn 
the  fellow  I  He  does  not  hear  me. 

Gri.  (Shaking  him.)  Maurice,  are  you  dream- 
ing ?  or  ? 

Spi.  (Who  has  been,  since  his  conversation  with 
Charles,  sitting  in  a  corner,  and  making  gestures, 
which  convey  the  idea  of  some  great  project,  starts 
wildly  from  his  chair,  and  seizes  Schweizer  by  the 
throat.)  La  bourse  ou  la  vie.  (Schweizer,  with  per- 
fect composure,  pushes  him  against  the  wall.  The 
rest  laugh,  Charles  drops  his  letter,  and  is  bursting 
out  of  the  room.    All  start.) 

Rol.  (Holding  Charles.)  Moor,  whither  so  fast  ? 

Gri.  What  is  the  matter  ?  He  is  as  pale  as  death. 

Cha.    Lost,  lost  for  ever.  ( Rushes  out. 

Rol.  (  Takes  up  the  letter  and  reads  it.)  "  Un- 
fortunate brother!  The  beginning  is  pleasant 
enough,  to  be  sure.  "  I  am  under  the  necessity 
of  briefly  informing  you  that  your  hopes  are  de- 
feated. Our  father  says,  you  may  go  wherever 
your  depraved,  abandoned  mind  directs.  He  for- 
bids every  personal  attempt,  on  your  part,  to  ob- 
tain his  pardon,  unless  you  wish  to  live  on  bread 
and  water  in  the  lowest  dungeon  of  the  castle,  till 
your  hairs  grow  like  the  feathers  of  an  eagle,  and 
your  nails  like  the  talons  of  a  vulture.  These  are 
his  last  words.  He  commands  me  to  close  the 
letter.    Farewel,  forever.    I  sincerely  pity  you. 


Francis  Mtoor 


I  CM 


TfiE  RCBBLRS. 


jet  h 


Sch-29.    Most  amiable  brother  Francis  ! 

Spi,  You  mentioned  bread  and  water,  I  think  ? 
Temperate  kind  of  diet,  to  be  sure — but  I  have 
provided  otherwise  for  you.  Have  not  I  always 
said  that  I  should  be  obliged  at  last  to  think  for 
you  all  ? 

Schiv.    The  blockhead  !  You  think  for  us  all  1 

Spi.  If  you  be  not  poltroons — if  you  have  cou- 
rage enough  to  attempt  something  great — 

Rol,  W" i  1 1  it  release  us  from  our  present  in- 
fernal scrapes  ? 

Spi,  (  With  a  smile  of  self-approbation, )  Release 
us  from  our  present  scrapes !  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Would 
that  satisfy  you  ?  Can  your  thimble-full  of  brains 
project  nothing  greater  than  that  ?  Yes,  yes,  Spie- 
gelberg  must  think  for  you.  I'll  point  out  to  you 
the  way  by  which  you  shall  become  heroes,  ba- 
rons, princes,  gods  ! 

Raz.  That's  a  long  stride,  by  my  soul.  But 
I  presume  your  project  is  rather  of  the  break-neck 
kind.  It  will  cost  each  of  us  a  head  at  least,  I 
suppose. 

Spi,  Not  your's,  depend  upon  it,  Razman. 
Courage  alone  is  wanted,  for  with  respect  to  the 
mode  of  proceeding,  I  take  the  management  of 
that  entirely  upon  myself.  Courage,  I  say,  Schwei- 
zer !  Courage,  Roller,  Grimm,  Razman,  Schuf- 
terle  !  Courage. 

Schw,  If  that  be  all  you  want,  I've  courage 
enough  to  walk  through  hell  barefooted. 

Rol.  And  I  enough  to  fight  the  devil  under 
the  gallows,  for  the  body  of  a  thief  just  executed. 

Spi,  Spoken  like  men  !  If  you  feel  thus  cou- 
rageous, let  any  one  step  forth  and  say,  "  I  still 
have  something  to  lose."  (A  long  pause,)  No  an- 
swer to  this  ? 

Rol,  Why  should  we  waste  our  time  in  idle 
word#?  if  common  sense  can  understand,  and  de- 
termined spirit  execute  your  project— -out  with  it ! 


Act  L 


THE  ROBBERS. 


23 


Spi,  Be  it  so.  (Stations  himself  in  the  midst  of 
them,  and  proceeds  in  a  solemn  tone, J  If  you  have 
one  drop  of  that  hlood  which  filled  the  veins  of 
German  heroes,  follow  me.  Let  us  hasten  to  the 
forests  of  Bohemia,  there  collecl  a  band  of  rob- 
bers— and  why  do  you  stare  at  me  ?  Is  your 

little  fume  of  valour  already  evaporated  ? 

Rol,  You  are  not  the  first  freebooter  who  has 
defied  the  gallows — and  yet — what  else  can  we  do  ? 

Spi.  What  else  I  Nothing.  Would  you  be 
confined  in  a  dungeon  for  debt,  and  doomed  to 
hard  labour  till  the  last  trumpet  sounds  ?  Would 
you  earn  a  morsel  of  rye-bread  by  tilling  the  earth  ? 
Would  you  gain  a  mean  subsistence  by  singing 
ballads  through  the  streets  ?  Would  you  follow  the 
drum  (I  mean  if  your  countenances  did  not  forbid 
that  any  regiment  should  accept  you)  and  submit 
to  the  overbearing  insults  of  a  corporal,  till  flog- 
ged to  death,  or  doomed  to  fill  the  station  of  a 
beast,  and  drag  artillery  !  Such  is  the  choice  now 
left  to  you. 

RoL  Spiegelberg,  you  are  a  glorious  orator, 
when  your  object  is  to  transform  an  honest  man 
into  a  villain.    But  what  is  become  of  Moor  ? 

Spi,  An  honest  man,  did  you  say  I  -Do  you 
think  my  project  will  make  you  less  honest  than 
you  are  at  present  ?  Is  it  not  praiseworthy  to  take 
from  the  miser  a  third  of  that,  which  causes  care, 
and  banishes  repose— to  force  the  hoarded  trea- 
sure into  circulation — to  restore  equality  of  pro- 
perty— in  a  word,  to  create  a  second  golden  age 
— to  assist  heaven,  by  removing  from  the  world 
war,  pestilence,  famine  and  physic — to  feel  the 
flattering  conviction,  when  we  sit  down  to  dinner, 
that  our  meal  is  procured  by  the  exertion  of  our 
own  genius  and  courage — to  acquire  the  respect 
of  every  rank  in  society— 

Roh    And,  finally,  to  be  dispatched  by  a  hang- 


24 


THE  RODDERS. 


Ad  L 


man — to  dangle,  m  defiance  of  wind  and  weather, 
between  heaven  and  earth,  while  the  fowls  of  the 
air  join  in  celestial  concert  round  us — to  have  the 
honour,  while  monarchs  are  food  for  worms,  of 
being  visited  by  the  royal  bird  of  Jove. — Maurice, 
Maurice,  beware  of  the  beast  with  three  legs. 

Spi.  Hen-hearted  fool !  Does  this  alarm  you  ? 
Many  a  fine  fellow  with  a  genius  entensive  enough 
to  have  effected  universal  reformation,  has  been 
doomed  to  perish  by  the  halter  ; — but  does  not 
such  a  man's  renown  extend  through  centuries 
and  tens  of  centuries,  while  many  a  prince  would 
be  overlooked  in  history,  were  it  not  the  histori- 
an's interest  to  increase  the  number  of  his  pages  ? 
Nay,  when  the  traveller  sees  a  gibbet, — does  he 
not  exclaim  :  "  That  fellow  was  no  fool,"  and  la- 
ment the  hardship  of  the  times  ? 

Raz.  Spiegelberg,  give  me  your  hand.  Your 
arguments,  like  the  lyre  of  Orpheus,  have  lulled 
that  howling  Cerberus,  my  conscience,  to  reposef 
—I  am  your's. 

Gri.  Let  them  catch  us  too,  if  they  can.  At 
all  events  one  may  carry  a  concealed  powder  which 
is  capable  of  conveying  us  across  Acheron  at  short 
notice. — Your  hand,  Maurice. — Your  hand,  Mau- 
rice.   You  have  heard  my  Catechism. 

Schiif.    Damnation  !  There's  an  auction  in  my 

head.    A  mountebank — a  sharper — a  robber  1 

am  ready  to  adopt  any  character.  He  who  bids 
the  most,  secures  me — Give  me  your  hand,  Mau- 
rice. 

Schzv.  (Approaches  slowly,  and  presents  his  hand.) 
Spiegelberg,  you  are  a  great  man — or  a  blind  sow 
has  found  an  acorn. 

Rol.  (After  a  long  pause,  during  which  he  has 
rivet  ted  his  eye  on  Sc/\weizer.)  You  too  my  friend  ! 
(Stretches  jorth  his  hand.)  Roller  and  Schweizer 
shall  support  each  other — even  to  the  jaws  of  hell. 


Act  I. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


2:, 


Shi.  Right,  my  lads  !  All  is  settled.  To  the 
stars  let  us  force  our  way, — to  Caesars  and  to  Ca- 
lamines.— Fill  your  glasses.  Health  to  the  god  of 
thieves. 

All.    Health  to  Mercury  1 

Spi.  Now,  let  us  proceed  to  business.  A  year 
hence,  each  of  us  will  be  rich  enough  to  buy  an 
earldom. 

Schav.  {Aside.)  Yes — if  we  be  not  broken  on 
the  wheel  before  the  year  is  expired.  (They  are 
going.) 

Rol.  Stay,  comrades,  stay.  Ugly  as  the  beast 
may  be,  it  must  have  a  head.  Rome  and  Sparta 
fell  for  want  of  one. 

Spi.  (With  a  favoning  mien.)  True.  Roller  is 
right.  A  leader  you  must  have — a  penetrating 
politic  leader.  (Stalks  into  the  midst  of  them.) 
When  I  reflect  what  you  were  but  a  few  moments 
since,  and  what  one  happy  thought  has  made  you 
— (yes,  yes, — of  course  you  must  have  a  chief) — a 
thought,  too,  which  must  have  had  its  origin  in 
an  enlightened  mind — 

Rol.  If  we  might  hope — but  I  fear  he  will  not 
.  consent- 
s'*. (In  a  complacent  tone.)  Don't  despair,  Rol- 
ler. Hard  as  is  the  task  to  steer  the  vessel,  when 
the  winds  and  waves  oppose  it — oppressive  as  is 
the  weight  of  a  crown — speak  frankly,  man.  Per- 
haps— perhaps — he  may  be  prevailed  upon — 

Rol.  If  he  be  not  at  our  head,  the  whole  scheme 
is  a  bubble.  Without  Moor,  we  shall  be  a  body- 
without  a  soul. 

Spi.  (Turning  anvay  with  a  look  of  peevish  dis- 
appointment.)   Dolt  !  Blockhead ! 

Enter  Charles,  in  violent  agitation. 
Cha.     (Walks  to  and  fro  ivith  furious  gestures, 
not  perceiving  that  any  one  is  present.)  Man  !— man  ! 
(vol.  11.)  C 


$6 


TTIi:  ROBBERS. 


Act  I. 


— False  hypocrite  ! — Deceitful  crocodile  ! — Thy 
eyes  oversow — but  thy  heart  is  iron.— ~  Thoit 
stretchiest  forth  thy  open  arms — but  a  poniard  is 
concealed  in  thy  bosom.  Lions  and  leopards  feed 
their  young, — the  ravens  feasts  its  little  ones  on 
carrion,  and  he,  he — Experience  has  made  me 
proof  against  the  shafts  of  malice.  I  could  smile, 
while  my  enemy  quaffed  my  heart's  blood — but 
when  the  affection  of  a  father  is  converted  into 
the  hatred  of  a  fury—let  manly  composure  catch 
lire — iletthe  gentle  lamb  become  a  tiger — let  every 
nerve  in  my  frame  be  braced,  that  I  may  spread 
around  me  vengeance  and  destruction. 

Rol.  Moor,  what  think  you  ? — Is  not  the  cavern 
of  a  robber  better  than  the  dungeon  of -a  prison  ? 

Cha.  Why  did  not  my  spirit  take  up  its  abode  in 
the  body  of  a  tiger,  which  satisfies  its  ravenous 
appetite  with  human  flesh  ?  Is  this  a  parent's  love  ? 
Oh  that  I  were  a  bear — then  might  I  instigate 
my  whole  species  to  revenge  my  wrongs. — Thus 
penitent — yet  thus  rejected  !  1  could  pour  poison 
into  the  ocean — I  could  annihilate  mankind. 

RoU    Listen  to  me,  Moor. 

Cha.  It  is  incredible — it  is  a  vision. — so  pa- 
thetic a  description  of  my  sufferings—- .so  fervent 
an  avowal  of  my  penitence — the  beasts  of  the  fo- 
rest would  have  felt  compassion,  yet  were  I 

to  declare  this  openly,  the  world  would  deem  it 
a  libel  upon  human  nature — Oh  that  I  could  blow 
the  trumpet  of  rebellion  through  creation — that  I 
could  arm  earth,  air,  and  sea  against  the  barba- 
rous race  ? 

Gri.  Hear  us  Moor  !  Your  fury.  m?.kes  you  deaf 
to  us. 

Cha.  Away  from  me  !  Is  not  thy  name  man  ? 
Art  thou  not  born  of  woman  ?  Away  from  me  in- 
stantly 1  Oh  I  loved  him  so  sincerely — so  unut- 
terably.   No  son  could  feel  the  same  affection  to- 


Jet  I, 


THE  HOBSERS. 


wards  a  father.  A  thousand  times  would  I  have 
sacrificed  my  life  in  his  defence.  ( Foaming  with 
fury,  and  stamping  most  violently. )  Ha  ! — Who  will 
arm  this  hand  with  a  sword,  that  I  may  destroy 
this-brood  of  otters?  Who  will  instruct  me  how  to 
extirpate  the  whole  race  ? — He  shall  be  my  friend, 
my  guardian  angel. — I  will  adore  him. 

Rol.  We  are  the  friends  v/hom  you  describe. 
Listen  to  us,  Moor. 

Gri.  Accompany  us  to  the  Bohemian  forests. 
We  intend  to  form  a  band  of  robbers,  and  you 
— (Charles  rivets  his  eye  on  him. ) 

Schw.  You  shall  be  our  captain — you  must  be 
our  captain. 

Spi.  (Throws  himself  into  a  chair,)  Slaves  and 
cowards  ! 

Cha.  Who  first  thought  of  this  ? — Hear  me  fel- 
lows I  (Seizes  Roller. J  Thy  mind  is  incapable  of 
conceiving  such  a  project. — Who  mentioned  it  to 
thee  ? — Yes,  by  the  thousand  arms  of  Death,  the 
project  suits  my  temper. — He  who  first  planned 
this  enterprize,  is  worthy  of  a  seat  in  heaven — i 
Robbers  and  murderers  ! — By  my  soul,  I  will  be 
your  captain. 

AIL  (With  a  joyful  shout.)  Long  live  our  cap- 
tain ! 

Spi.    (Aside.)    'Till  I  dispatch  him. 

Cha.  The  scales  fall  from  my  eyes.  What  a 
fool  was  I  to  sigh  for  the  cage,  in  which  I  have 
before  been  confined  !  My  soul  thirsts  for  action 
—my  heart  pants  for  the  blessings  of  freedom— 
Robbers  and  murderers  ! — Yes.  ]  will  unite  with 
these,  and  trample  on  all  laws.  I  appealed  to  man, 
and  man  shut  his  ear  against  me. — Away,  there- 
fore, all  sympathy — all  mercy — all  humanity  1  I 
no  longer  have  a  father — I  no  longer  feel  an  at- 
tachment. Blood  and  death  shall  teach  me  to  for- 
get that  any  one  was  ever  dear  to  me.— Tremble, 


88 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  I. 


tremble,  ye  who  are  doomed  to  be  in  my  power. 
— For  my  vengeance  shall  be  horrible. — We  are 
agreed,  my  friends.  I  am  your  captain — and  hap- 
py shall  be  his  lot,  who  most  shall  spread  around 
him  desolation  and  despair  ;  for,  as  I  live,  he  shall 
be  recompensed  most  royally. —  Come  round  me, 
friends,  and  swear  you  will  be  faithful  and  obedi- 
ent to  me  till  death. 

All.  ( Present  their  hands.)  Your's  till  death. 
(Spiegelberg  walks  furiously  up  and  down.  J 

CHa.  And  now,  by  this  right  hand  I  swear  to 
remain  your  faithful,  stedfast  leader,  till  I  shall 
be  no  more.  This  arm  shall  make  a  corpse  of 
him  who  hesitates  when  danger  calls,  or  retreats 
when  it  presses.  The  same  punishment  overtake 
me  from  your  hands,  if  ever  I  swerve  from  my 
oath.    Are  you  satisfied  ? 

All.  (Throwing  their  hats  in  the  air.)  We  are, 
we  are.  (Spiegelberg  turns  awaywith  a  malicious 
smile,) 

Cha.  Nov/,  let  us  go.  Be  not  afraid  of  danger 
or  of  death  ;  for  over  us  presides  a  destiny,  which 
cannot  be  controlled.  We  all  hasten  towards  the 
fatal  day  :  Die  we  must — whether  upon  a  bed  of 
down,  the  field  of  battle,  or  the  scaffold — One  of 
these  must  be  our  lot.    (Exit,  followed  by  the  rest* 

Spi.  {Aside,  as  he  goes.)  The  catalogue  is  not 
complete.  Thou  hast  omitted  treason  and  assas- 
sination. (Exit* 


END   OF   THE   FIRST  ACT, 


Act  II, 


THE  ROBBERS. 


2  9 


ACT  II, 

Scene — A  Chamber  in  the  Count's  Castle. 

Francis  is  discovered  in  deep  Meditation, 

Fra,  How  tedious  are  these  medical  men  !— 
What  an  eternity  is  an  old  man's  life  ! — Must  my 
towering  plans  be  confined  to  the  snail-paced  in- 
firmities of  a  father  I  Oh  that  I  understood  the 
method  of  conveying-  death  into  the  fort  of  life — 
of  destroying  the  body  by  operating  on  the  mind  I 
— That  were  a  glorious  discovery, — -it  would  raise 
me  to  the  rank  of  a  second  Columbus  in  the  realms 
of  death. — Let  me  reflect,  awhile.  Such  an  art 
deserves  that  I  should  be  the  inventor  of  it. — How 
shall  I  begin  ? — What  sensation  would  soonest 
overpower  the  faculties  of  life  ?  Rage  ?  No.  That 
is  a  voracious  wolf,  which  soon  surfeits  itself— 
Grief?  No.  That  is  a  worm,  which  creeps  too 
slowly. — Fear? — No.  Hope  defeats  its  power.— 
—Are  these  the  only  executioners  of  man  ? — Is 
the  arsenal  of  death  so  soon  exhausted  ?  (After  a 
pause, )  Ha  !  True  ! — Terror  ! — What  cannot  ter- 
ror effect? — What  can  reason,  or  religion  oppose 
to  this  giant  ? — Yet,  it  is  possible  he  may  even  sur- 
vive the  effects  of  terror. — Assist  me  then,  Anguish, 
and  thou,  Repentance,  undermining  viper,  who  dost 
ruminate  thy  food.  Assist  me,  thou  Self-accusa- 
tion, who  dost  destroy  thine  own  inheritance,  and 
turn  against  thy  p?irent.  Lend  me  thy  aid,  too, 
Memory,  who  dost  multiply  our  present  sorrows 
by  recalling  former  happiness— Display  thy  mir- 
ror, thou  deceitful  nymph,  Futurity,  Let  him 
behold  therein  the  joys  of  heaven,  but  never,  ne- 
ver let  him  taste  tha$n— The  plan  is  excellent. 
Blow  shall  follow  blow.  This  band  of  furies  shall 
immediately  commence  their  terrible  combined 

C    2  ,:  " 


THE  R0B3KRS. 


Ad  II. 


assault,  and  that -malignant  fiend,  Des  5a/r,  shall 
follow,  and  inflict  the  fatal  bl3W.  Triumph  I 
Triumph  ! 

Enter  Her  man. 

Ha !  Dcus  ex  machina  I  Herman  I 

Her.    Your  humble  servant,  Sir. 

Fra.  ( Presents  his  hand.  J  You  shaii  not  find  me 
ungrateful. 

Her.    I  have  proof  of  your  liberality. 

Fra.  You  shall  soon  have  more — very  soon. 
Herman  listen  to  me. 

Her.    I  am  all  attention. 

Fra.  I  know  you,  Herman.  You  are  a  reso- 
lute, intrepid  fellow.  My  father  has  insulted  you 
most  grossly. 

Her.    May  hell  receive  me  when  I  forget  it  ! 

Fra.  Spoken  like  a  man  !  Revenge  becomes 
you,  Herman.  Take  this  purse.  It  should  be 
heavier,  were  I  lord  of  these  domains. 

Her.  That  is  my  constant  wish.  I  thank  you,  Sir. 

Fra.  Is  it  your  wish  I  should  be  lord  of  these 
domains  ? — Is  it  really  your  wish,  Herman  ?  But 
it  cannot  be.  My  father  has  the  constitution  of  a 
lion,  and  I  am  a  younger  son. 

Her.  I  wish,  Sir,  that  you  were  heir  to  the 
estates,  and  that  your  father  had  the  constitution 
of  a  love-sick  girl. 

Fra.  Were  such  the  case,  Herman  should  be 
royally  rewarded  for  his  services.  I  would  raise 
thee  from  thy  ignoble  situation,  to  the  rank  which 
thou  deservest.  By  heaven,  thou  shouldst  possess 
a  treasure — thou  shouldst  rival  the  equipages  of 

our  proudest  nobles  but  I  am  wandering  from 

the  subject,  on  which  I  wished  to  converse  with 
you.    Have  you  forgotten  Amelia  ? 

Her.    Damnation  1  Why  remind  me  of  her  ? 

Fra.  My  brother  gained  her  affections — my 
brother  robbed  you  

Her.    For  which  he  shall  most  dearly  pay. 


Act  III 


THE  ROSTERS., 


Si 


Fra.  She  refused  you — uay,  I  believe,  he  kick- 
ed you  down  stars — 

Her.    For  which  I'll  kick  him  into  hell. 

Fra.  I  have  often  heard  him  say,  that  your  fa- 
ther never  could  look  at  you  without  striking  his 
breast  and  exclaiming  :  u  God  be  merciful  to  me, 
a  sinner  I" 

Her.  (With frantic  violence.)  Hell  and  damna- 
tion seize  him  I — No  more  ! 

Fra.  He  advised  you  to  sell  the  patent  of  your 
father's  nobility,  and  buy  worsted  to  mend  your 
stor.kings. 

Her.  The  curse  of  heaven  overtake  him  !  I'll 
tear  his  eyes  out. 

Fra.  Why  thus  iritated,  Herman  ?  How  can 
you  be  revenged  ?  What  harm  can  a  mouse  do  to 
a  lion  ?  Your  fury  v.  ill  sweeten  his  triumph.  You 
can  do  no  more  than  grind  your  teeth,  and  vent 
your  rage  upon  a  crust  of  bread. 

Her.  (Stamping  with  violence.)  I'll  trample, 
him  in  the  dust. 

Fra.  Right. — Herman,  you  are  a  gentleman. 
You  must  not  tamely  submit  to  this  insult. — 
You  must  not  lose  Amelia — no,  by  heaven,  you 
shall  not  lose  Amelia.  Hell  and  furies  !  I  would 
attempt  the  utmost,  were  I  in  your  situation. 

Her.  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  felled  him  to 
the  earth. 

Fra.  Be  not  so  violent,  Herman.  Come  near- 
er.   You  shall  have  Amelia. 

Her.    That  I  will,  in  spite  of  the  devil. 

Fra.  You  shall  have  her,  1  tell  you.  You  shall 
receive  her  from  my  hand.  Come  nearer,  I  say. 
You  are  ignorant,  perhaps,  that  Charles  is  disin- 
herited. 

Her.  Amazing  !  I  have  never  heard  a  syllabic 
respecting  it. 

Fra.  Compose  yourself,  and  listen.  Eleven 
months  have  elapsed  since  nc  has  been  discarded, 


32 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  II. 


— But  my  father  already  repents  the  hasty  step, 
though  (with  a  smile)  I  flatter  my-selfhe  ought 
not  to  have  the  credit  of  it.  Amelia,  too,  tor- 
ments him  daily  with  reproaches  and  complaints. 
In  short,  I  am  convinced  he  will  soon  he  persuaded 
to  send  people  in  search  of  him  throughout  the 
world,  and  if  he  he  found — goodnight,  Herman  1 
You  may  how  to  him  at  the  coach-door,  when  he 
drives  with  her  to  church,  for  the  purpose  of  mar- 
rying her. 

Her.    I  would  strangle  him  at  the  alter. 

Fra.  My  father  will  soon  resign  to  my  hrother 
his  estates,  that  he  himself  may  live  in  retirement. 
Then  will  your  proud  rival  have  the  reins  in  hand, 
and  laugh  at  those  who  envy  him — while  I,  who 
would  exalt  you  to  the  rank  which  you  deserve— 
I  must  be  dependent  on  him  for  a  bare  subsistence. 

Her.  (Enraged)  Ho.  By  my  soul  you  shall 
not  be  dependent  on  him. 

Fra.  Can  you  prevent  it  ?  you,  too  Herman,  will 
be  doomed  to  feel  the  scourge  of  his  malice.  When 
he  meets  you  in  the  street,  he  will  spit  at  you, 
and  if  you  shrug  your  shoulders,  or  complain — 
woe  be  to  you  ! — Such  is  your  chance  to  obtain 
Amelia — such  are  your  prospects*. 

Her.  (In  a  resolute  tone.)  Instruct  me,  then, 
how  to  act. 

Fra.  I  will  ;  I  feel  for  your  fate,  and  will  ad- 
vise you  as  a  friend.  Go — disguise  yourself — so 
completely  that  no  one  can  recognize  you,  and 
procure  admission  to  the  old  man.  Tell  him 
that  you  are  come  from  Hungary — that  you  served 
with  my  brother  during  the  last  campaign — that 
you  saw  him  die  on  the  field  of  battle— 

Her.    But  shall  I  be  believed  ? 

Fra.  Leave  that  to  me.  Take  this  packet- 
It  contains  instructions  and  documents,  which 
will  silence  all  suspicion. — Now  contrive  to  leave 
the  castle  unperceived.  Escape  through  the  back- 


Act  II. 


THE  ROBBERS* 


door,  and  over  the  garden-wall. — For  the  manage- 
ment of  the  catastrophe  rely  on  me. 

Her.  And  that  will  end  in  :  Long  live  our  new 
Lord,  Francis  Count  Moor ! 

Fra.  How  sly  the  rogue  is  ! — Right,  Herman. 
By  this  plan  we  shall  obtain  all  we  wish.  Amelia 
will  renounce  every  hope  of  possessing  Charles. 
The  old  man  will  blame  himself  for  haying  been 
the  cause  of  his  son's  untimely  end— will  fall  sick 
— and  then,  Herman — there  needs  no  earthquake 
to  destroy  a  fulling  house.  He  will  not  survive 
the  news — I  shall  inherit  his  property.  Amelia, 
having  lost  every  support,  must  become  the  play- 
thing of  my  will.  Of  course,  therefore,  you  per- 
ceive— in  short  every  thing  will  be  as  we  wish. 
—But,  you  must  not  retract,  Herman. 

Her.  Retract  1  {With  an  air  of  triumph.)  Sooner 
shall  the  bail  return  to  the  cannon  which  discharg- 
ed it.    Rely  on  me. — Farewel.  {Exit, 

F>-a.  (Calls  after  him.)  Remember  that  all  you 
do  is  for  your  own  advantage.    The  harvest  is 

your  own.  Yes.    When  the  ox  has  dragged 

the  corn  to  the  barn  he  must  be  content  with  hay. 
Some  village  wench  thou  may'st  espouse,  but  not 
Amelia.  How  .ready  is  the  impetuous  fool  to 
stride  over  the  bounds  of  honesty  for  the  purpose 
of  obtaining  an  object,  which  it  is  impossible  he 
ever  can  possess  !  This  fellow,  though  he  him- 
self is  a  villain,  relies  upon  my  promise.  Wil- 
lingly does  he  consent  to  deceive  an  unsuspecting 
father — vet  never  would  he  forgive  the  man  who 
retaliates  by  deceiving  him.  Is  such  the  creature 
appointed  by  his  Maker  to  be  lord  of  the  creati- 
on ?  Forgive  me,  then,  dame  nature,  if  I  have 
accused  thee  of  making  me  unlike  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, and  rid  me  of  the  little  resemblance  which 
stiil  exists. — Man,  thou  hast  forfeited  my  respect, 
and  firmly  am  I  now  convinced  that  there  can  be 


THI  ROBBERS. 


Ad  II. 


no  sin  in  straining*  every  nerve  to  injure  thee. 
1  {Exit. 

Scene  changes  to  the  Count's  chamber. — He  is 

discovered  asleep. — Amelia  is  standing  at  his  side. 

Ante.  Softly  let  me  tread — he  is  asleep. — {Ap- 
proaches him-)  How  benignant,  how  venerable  is 
his  countenance  ! — Venerable  as  the  countenance 
with  which  saints  are  depicted.— No,  good  man, 
I  cannot  be  incensed  against  thee. — Slumber  a- 
midst  the  perfume  of  the  rose.  {Scatters  roses  on 
the  bsd.)  Dream  of  your  Charles— and  wake  with 
grateful  odours  round  you.  {Going.) 

Cgu.   {In  his  sleep.)  My  Charles  1  My  Charles  ! 

Ame.  {Slowly  returns.)  Hark  1  His  guardian  an- 
gel listened  to  my  supplication.  {Walks  close  to 
the  bed.)  It  is  sweet  to  breathe  the  air,  in  which 
his  name  is  floating.    1  will  remain  here. 

Cou.  {Still  asleep.)  Are  you  there,  Charles  ? 
Are  you  really  there  ? — Oh,  turn  away  that  look 
of  horror.  I  am  already  wretched  enough.  {Ap- 
pears to  be  much  agitated.) 

Ame.  {Shakes  him.)  Awake,  Uncle. — -It  was 
but  a  dream. 

Con.  {Half  aivake.)  He  was- not  here,  then. 
I  did  not  hold  his  hand.  Cruel,  hard-hearted  Fran* 
c  is  !  Will  you  not  even  allow  me  to  see  him  in  a 
dream  ? 

,Ame.    {Starts.)    Ha!  mark  that,  Amelia. 

Cou.  {Rouses  himself.)  Where  am  I  ? — You 
here,  my  niece  ? 

Ame.    Your  slumbers  were  enviable,  uncle. 

Cou.  True.  I  was  dreaming  of  my  Charles. 
Why  did  I  not  continue  to  dream  of  him  ?  Per- 
haps, I  might  have  obtained  his  forgiveness. 

Ame.  {With  a  look  of  benignity.)  Angels  har- 
bour no  resentment. — He  forgives  you.  {Gently 
pressing  his  hand.)  Father  of  my  Charles,  i"  for- 
give you. 


Met  n. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


35 


Cou.    No,  dearest  girl.  The  deadly  paleness  of 
thy  countenance  bears  witness  against  me. — Poor 
Amelia  !  I  destroyed  thy  happiness  for  ever.  Do 
not  forgive  me — yet  oh,  do  not  curse  me. 

Ame.  Never,  never  !  Be  this  my  only  curse  ! 
{Kisses  his  hand  with  tenderness.') 

Cou.  {Rising.)  What  do  I  see  ?  Roses  ! — Girl, 
dost  thou  strew  roses  on  the  murderer  of  thy 
Charles  ? 

Ams.  I  strewed  them  on  the  father  of  my 
Charles.  {Falls  on  the  Count's  neck.)  On  Charles 
himself  I  cannot  strew  them. 

Con.  How  happy  would  you  be,  were  that  in 
your  power  !  {Draws  forth  a  miniature.)  Know  you 
this  picture  ? 

Ame.    {Rushes  towards  it.)    My  Charles  ? 

Cou.  Such  were  his  looks,  when  sixteen  years 
of  age.  How  altered  are  they  now  1  Dreadful 
thought  '  This  benignant  look  is  now  supplanted 
by  the  frown  of  fell  misanthropy.  This  smile  of 
hope  is  banished  by  despair.  Doubtless  you  re- 
collect the  day  on  which  you  painted  this,  Amelia. 
It  was  his  birth-day. 

Ame.  Oh  !  never  shall  I  forget  it.  Never  shall 
I  again  feel  so  happy  !  How  charming  were  his 
looks  !  The  reflection  of  the  setting  sun  illumined 
his  countenance,  while  his  dark  locks  wantoned 
in  the  air.  The  sensations  of  the  woman  over- 
powered the  skill  of  the  artist.  My  pencil  fell 
from  my  hand,  while  my  soul  fed  on  his  enchant- 
ing features.  The  full  beauty  of  the  original  took 
root  in  my  heart,  while  on  the  ivory  the  touches 
were  feeble  and  inanimate  as  is  the  recolleclion  of 
past  music. 

Cou.  Proceed,  proceed.  These  enthusiastic 
ideas  recal  my  youth.  Oh  my  Amelia,  your  mu- 
tual affection  made  me  so  happy  

Ann.     ( Riveting  her  eye  upon  the  miniature. ) 


56 


THE  ROBBERS. 


No,  it  is  not  he — it  is  not  Charles.  Here,  and 
here,  (pointing  to  her  heart  and  head.)  the  like- 
ness is  exact.  It  was  not  in  the  power  of  colours 
to  imitate  that  heavenly  fire,  which  sparkles  in 
his  eye.    Away  with  it — 'tis  a  paltry  daub. 

Enter  Daniel. 

Dan.  A  man  waits  without,  who  wishes  to  see 
you,  my  Lord.  He  says  that  he  has  tidings  of  im- 
portance to  communicate. 

Cou.  To  me  there  is  in  this  world,  but  one  sub- 
ject which  can  be  of  importance.    You  know  it 
Amelia — Perhaps  it  is  some  unfortunate  man,  who 
comes  to  crave  my  charity.    He  shall  not  depar 
unassisted.  (Exit  Daniel 

Ame.    If  he  be  a  beggar,  admit  him  instantly 

Enter  Francis,  Herman  in  disguise  and  Daniel 

Tra.    This  is  the  man  who  demands  admittance 
to  you.  He  says  that  he  is  the  bearer  of  most  dread 
ful  tidings — can  you  bear  to  hear  his  recital  ? 

Cou.    I  know  but  one  circumstance  which  can 
be  dreadful  to  me.    Approach,  and  spare  me  not. 
.  Give  him  a  cup  ofwine. 

Her.  {In  a  feigned  voice.)  My  Lord,  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me,  if,  against  my  inclination,  I  di- 
stress you  by  my  narrative.  I  am  a  stranger  in  this 
country  ;  but  I  know  you  well — you  are  the  father 
of  Charles  Moor. 

Cou.    How  know  you  this  ? 

Her.    I  knew  your  son. 

Amc.    Where  is  he?  where  is  he? 

Cou.    Do  you  bring  tidings  of  him  ? 

Her.  He  was  student  at  the  university  of  Leip- 
zig. When  he  left  that  place,  he  wandered  far 
and  wide.  He  himself  has  told  me  that  he  strol- 
led through  Germany  bare-headed  and  bare-foot- 
ed, begging  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  Five 


Act  II. 


THE  R03BEHS. 


37 


months  after  this,  the  fatal  war  between  the  Poles 
and  Turks  broke  out,  and  as  he  had  no  hopes  in 
this  world,  he  was  attracted  by  the  sound  of  kin-- 
Matthias's  victorious  drum.  "  Permit  me,"  said 
he  to  his  majesty,  "  to  die  upon  the  bed  of  honour. 
I  am  fatherless." 

Cou.    Do  not  look  at  me,  Amelia. 

Her.  The  king  bestowed  on  him  an  ensign's 
commission,  and  he  accompanied  the  royal  hero, 
during  his  victorious  career.  It  happened  that  he 
and  I  slept  in  the  same  tent.  He  often  spoke  of 
his  old  father,  and  said  he  had  known  better  days  ; 
nay,  sometimes  he  would  dwell  upon  his  disap- 
pointed hopes,  till  tears  rose  into  our  eyes. 

Cou.    ( Hiding  his  face.)  No  more  !  no  more  ! 

Her.  A  week  after  this  period,  a  bloody  bat- 
tle occurred,  and  your  son  conducted  himself  like 
a  gallant  warrior.  The  whole  army  was  witness 
of  his  wonderful  exploits.  Five  regiments  were 
obliged  to  relieve -each  other — and  your  son  kept 
his  post.  Balls  whizzed  past  him  on  every  side — 
and  he  kept  his  post.  A  bullet  shattered  his  right 
hand — he  grasped  the  colours  with  his  left — and 
'kept  his  post. 

Ame.  (Transported.)  Uncle,  he  kept  his  post. 

Her.  I  found  him,  after  the  battle,  stretched 
on  the  very  spot  where  he  had  stood.  He  was  mor- 
tally wounded.  With  his  left  hand  he  was  trying 
to  repel  the  streaming  blood— his  right  he  had 
buried  in  the  earth.  "Comrade,"  said  he,  "it 
was  reported  through  the  ranks  that  our  general 
is  slain." — "  He  is,"  answered  I.  "  Then  let  every 
brave  soldier  follow  his  commander,"  cried  he. 
With  these  words  he  withdrew  his  left  hand  from 
the  wound,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  expired  like 
a  hero. 

Fra.  ( Affecting  to  be  enraged.)  Peace,  wretch  ! 
(vol.  ii.)  D 


THE  R0BBER3. 


Act  //. 


May  thy  tongue  deny  its  office  for  ever !  Art  thou 
come  hither  to  destroy  my  father? 

Her,  I  am  come  to  fulfil  the  last  request  of 
my  dying  comrade.  "  Take  this  sword,"  said  he, 
"  in  a  feeble  voice,  and  deliver  it  to  my  father. 
Tell  him  that  it  is  stained  with  the  blood  of  his 
son — of  his  sen  Charles,  whom  his  curse  forced 
into  the  field.  Tell  him  that  I  died  in  despair." 
The  woid  which  accompanied  his  last  sigh  was — . 
Amelia, 

Ame,  {As  if  roused  from  a  reverie.)  Was  Amelia! 

Con,  (Overpowered  with  anguish,  tears  his  hair) 
My  curse  forced  him  into  the  field  !  He  died  in  des- 
pair ! 

Her,  This  is  the  sword,  and  this  a  miniature, 
which,  at  the  same  time,  he  drew  from  his  bosom  : 
it  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  that  lady.  "  Deli- 
ver this  to  my  brother  Francis,  and  tell  him" — . 
Here  his  voice  failed  him.  I  know  not  what  he 
would  have  added. 

Fra.  ( Counterfeiting  astonishment.  )  Amelia's  pic- 
ture to  me  !  Amelia's  picture  from  Charles  tc* 
me  ! 

Ame,  ( Approaching  Herman  with  violence.) 
Vile  impostor  !  Execrable  hireling  !  ( Seizes  him.) 

Her,  I  meritnot  this  treatment,  Madam:  look, 
and  be  convinced  it  is  your  picture.  Perhaps  you 
yourself  presented  it  to  him. 

Fra,  By  my  soul,  Amelia,  'tis  the  very  picture* 

Ame.    It  is,  it  is. — Oh  heaven  and  earth  ! 

Con,  ( In  agony.)  My  curse  forced  him  into  the 
field— -my  curse  drove  him  to  despair. 

Fra.  And  he  thought  of  me  in  the  last  bitter 
hour — thought  of  me  when  death  already  waved 
his  sable  banner  over  him.  Worthy  affectionate 
brother. 

Cou,  My  curse  drove  my  son  into  the  field  of 
battle — my  curse  made  him  die  in  despair. 


Jet  II. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Her.  (Scarcely  able  to  conceal  his  agitation.)  I 
-cannot  bear  the  sight  of  so  much  misery.  Farewel, 
my  Lord.  ( Aside  to  Francis.)  Would  that  you 
had  not  employed  me.  Exit  hastily. 

Ame.    Stay,    oh  stay,  what  was  his  last  word  ? 

Her.    {Calls  to  her  in  a  broken  voice.)  Amelia. 

Ame,  Amelia  !  No  : — thou  art  not  an  impostor. 
He  is  dead — yes,    he  is  dead.    Charles  is  dead* 

Fra.  What  do  I  see  ?  Letters  written  with 
blood  upon  the  sword  1 — Amelia! 

Ame.    Written  with  his  blood  I 

Fra.  Am  I  awake?  Look  at  these  bloody  cha- 
racters. "  Francis  do  not  forsake  my  Amelia."  And 
see — on  the  other  side  of  the  blade  :  "Amelia,  al- 
mighty death  releases  you  from  your  vows."  Mark 
that.  He  wrote  it  with  a  hand  almost  benumbed 
by  death  ;  he  wrote  it  with  his  heart's  warm  blood ; 
he  wrote  it  on  the  awful  brink  of  eternity. 

Ame.  Gracious  God  !  it  is  his  hand.  Oh  hor- 
rible i  He  never  loved  me.  [Rushes  out. 

Fra.  {Aside.)  Damnation,  the  dotard  will  sur- 
vive the  attack. 

Cou.  Oh  my  Amelia,  my  niece,  my  child,  do 
not  leave  me.  Francis,  Francis,  restore  to  me  my 
son. 

Fra.  Who  loaded  him  with  a  malediction  ? 
Who  drove  him  to  the  field  of  battle?  Who  doom- 
ed him  to  die  in  despair  ?  He  was  a  noble  youth. 
May  the  curse  of  heaven  overtake  his  murderer  ! 

Cou.  (Striking  his  breast  and  forehead  ivith  fran- 
tic violence.)  Yes.  Heaven's  curse  must  over- 
take me  1  I  am  the  father,  the  unatural  father 
who  destroyed  him.  I  am  the  murderer  of  my 
son.  He  loved  me  even  at  the  hour  of  death. 
Monster,  monster  that  I  am  ! 

Fra.  Why  this  fruitless,  sorrow  ?  He  is  dead. 
(With  a  malignant  smile.)  It  is  easier  to  murder 
than  to  reanimate  a  son. 


40 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  II, 


Cou.  It  was  by  thy  persuasion  that  I  cursed 
my  son.  It  was  by  thy  hellish  arts. — Wretch ! 
restore  to  me  my  Charles. 

Era.  Rouse  not  my  fury.  I  abandon  thee  at 
the  hour  of  death. 

Coii.  Villain  !  Monster  !  Barbarous  monster  ! 
Restore  to  me  my  son.  ( Rushes  furiously  to- 
wards  Francis,  who  eludes  his  grasps  and  exit.) 
A  thousand  curses  follow  thee  !  Thou  hast  robbed 
me  of  my  son.  ( Overwhelmed  with  despair,  he 
throws  himself  upon  a  couch.)  Forsaken  by  all — 
forsaken  at  my  dying  hour.  My  guardian  angel 
turns  away,  and  a/1  the  saints  of  heaven  abhor  me 
as  a  murderer. — O  horrible,  horrible  1  ■  Will 
no  kind  soul  support  my  head  ?  Will  no  one  close 
my  eyes  ?  1  call  not  on  my  kindred,  or  my  friends. 
I  have  no  kindred — I  have  no  friends.  I  call  on 
mankind.    Will  no  one — -forsaken — alone — death 

despair.     ( Sinks  senseless  upon  the  couch.) 

Enter  Amelia. 
Amc.    {Espies  him,  and  shrieks.")  Dead  !  dead  ! 

(Rushes  out. 

Scene  changes  to  a  forest  in  Bohemia.  Enter  Raz- 
k  an  from  one  side,  and  Spiegelberg,  with 
several  Robbers,  from  the  other. 

Raz.  Welcome,  comrade,  welcome  to  the  fo- 
rest of  Bohemia.  ( Embraces  him.)  Where  the 
devil  have  you  been  ?  From  what  quarter  has  the 
wind  blown  you  hither,  precious  brother  in  inir 
quity  ? 

Spi.  I  am  piping  hot  from  the  fair  at  Leipzig. 
Rare  fun  we  had,  I  assure  you.  Schufterle  will 
tell  you  all  particulars,  when  you  see  him.  He 
has  joined  our  captain's  principal  division  on  the 
road.  (Throws  himself  on  the  earth.')  Well,  and 
how  have  you  fared  since  we  parted.  Is  the  trade 
brisk  ?  Oh,  I  could  spend  a  day  in  relating  our 


Act  II. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


41 


pranks,  and  damn  me  if  you  would  not  forget  your 
meals  while  listening  to  them. 

Raz.  That  I  believe — that  I  believe.  We  have 
seen  some  accounts  of  you  in  the  newspapers. 
But  where,  in  the  devil's  name,  did  you  find  these 
fellows  ?  Why,  you  have  brought  an  army  of  re- 
cruits. You  are  a  notable  dog  at  discovering 
rogues,  Maurice. 

Spi.  Ay,  and  a  glorious  set  of  rogues  I've 
brought.  You  may  hang  your  hat  on  the  sun, 
and  I'll  bet  half  a  week's  booty  that  the  fellows 
steal  it,  and  that  not  a  soul  shall  know  how  it 
was  taken  away. 

Raz.  (Laughs.)  Well,  said  Maurice,  you  and 
these  gentlemen  will  be  welcome  to  our  noble 
captain.  He  has  enticed  some  fine  fellows,  too, 
I  promise  you. 

Spi.  (Maliciously.)  Captain,  forsooth  ! — -Com- 
pare his  men  to  mine  ? — Pshaw  ! 

Raz.  Come,  come. — Your's  may  know  how 
to  manage  their  fingers  ;  but  our  Captain's  re- 
putation has  procured  him  some  determined  dogs 
 brave  hearty  honest  fellows. 

Spi.    So  much  the  worse. 

Enter  Grimm  in  haste. 

Raz.  Who's  there  ?  What's  the  matter  I  Have 
you  seen  any  travellers  ? 

Gri.  Damnation  ?  Where  are  the  rest — What ! 
—Must  you  stand  prating  here,  while  poor  Rol- 
ler— 

R,z.    Roller  !  What  of  him? 
Gri.    Why  he  is  hanged,  and  four  more  with 
him. 

Raz.    Roller  hanged  !  How  do  you  know  that  ? 

Gri.  He  has  been  in  prison  three  weeks  ;  and 
yrt  knew  nothing  about  the  matter,  During  that 
time,  he  has  been  thrice  stretched  on  the  wheel/ 
d  2 


42 


THE  ROBBERS, 


Act  II. 


but  the  staunch  dog  refused  to  confess  where  his 
captain  was.  Yesterday  he  was  condemned — and 
this  morning  he  went  post-haste  to  the  devil. 

Raz,  What  a  damned  business  !  Does  the 
Captain  know  it  ? 

Gri.  The  first  account  of  it  reached  him  yes>- 
terday.  He  foamed  at  the  mouth  like  a  wild  boar. 
You  know  he  was  always  very  fond  of  Roller. 
Away  he  went,  and  fixed  a  ladder  against  the  wall 
of  the  prison,  but  in  vain.  He  gained  admittance 
disguised  as  a  friar,  and  wanted  to  take  Roller's 
situation,  but  the  noble  fellow  would  not  consent 
to  it.  Moor  then  returned,  and  this  morning 
swore  (our  blood  ran  while  we  heard  him)  that 
Roller  should  be  lighted  to  eternity  by  such  a  torch 
as  never  yet  graced  the  funeral  of  an  emperor. 
The  town  will  feel  the  effect  of  his  fury  ;  for  he 
hates  the  inhabitants  on  account  of  their  bigotry, 
and  you  know  when  he  says  he  will  do  any  thing, 
it  is  as  certain  as  if  already  done. 

Raz.    Poor  Roller ! 

Spi.  Memento  mori.  But  I  have  not  much  to 
-do  -with  that  maxim.    (Sings. ) 

When  a  gibbet  I  pass 
I  am  not  such  an  ass 
As  to  blubber,  and  think  of  my  end. 
But  1  shut  my  left  eye, 
Nod,  and  wink  while  I  cry  : 
"Better  you  there  than  Maurice — good  friend." 
Raz.  Hark  1  a  shot !  ( A  noise  is  heard.) 
Spi.  Another! 

Raz.  And  a  third  !  Huzza  !  It  is  the  captain. 
(Several  Robbers  sing  at  a  distance.  J 

Long  live  such  judges!  Who  can  match  'em  ? 
They  hang  no  rogues — unless  they  catch  'em. 
(Schweizer's  and  Roller's  voices  are  heard.)  Hol- 
la !  Holla !  Ho  ! 

Raz.  Roller's  voice,  or  a  thousand  devils  seize 
ane  i 


Act  II. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


(Schweizer  and  Roller  are  again  heard. )  Raz- 
man  !  Grimm  !  Spiegelberg  !  Razman  1 

Raz.    Roller  I  Schweizer  !  Fire,  fury,  and  hell. 

( Running  to  meet  them. 

Enter  Charles,  Schweizer,  Roller,  Schuf- 
terle,  and  other  Robbers,  covered  with  dirt. 

Cha.  Liberty  !  Liberty  ! — Roller,  you  are  free. 
Take  my  horse,  and  wash  him  with  wine.  (Throws 
himself  on  the  earth.)  We  have  had  warm  work, 
by  my  soul. 

Raz.  (To  Roller.)  What!  Escaped,  after 
having  been  thrice  on  the  wheel  ! 

Spi.    Are  you  alive,  or  do  I  see  a  ghost  ? 

Rol.  Alive  and  hearty,  comrade.  Where  am 
I  come  from,  think  you  ? 

Gri.  How  can  we  know  ?  We  expected  you 
were  gone  to  prepare  for  our  reception  below. 

Rol.  You  might  have  guessed  worse,  for  I  had 
begun  my  journey  thither.  I  am  come  straight 
from  the  gallows.  Let  me  recover  my  breath. 
Schweizer  will  tell  you  the  whole  history.  Give 
me  a  glass  of  brandy.  You  here  again,  Maurice  ! 
I  expect  to  have  met  you  else  where.  Give  me 
a  glass  of  brandy.    All  my  bones  are  loose. 

Raz.  But  come — tell  us  how  you  escaped. 
From  the  gallows,  did  you  say  ? 

Rol.  {Swallows  a  glass  of  brandy.)  That's  the 
liquor  of  life  !  It  warms  my  heart. — Yes—straight 
from  the  gallows,  as  I  told  you,  I  was  only  three 
steps  from  the  damned  ladder,  on  which  I  was  to 
mount  into  Abraham's  bosom.  My  chance  was 
not  worth  a  pinch  of  snuff.  To  the  captain  I  am 
indebted  for  liberty  and  life. 

Schw.  It  was  an  excellent  joke,  to  be  sure.  We 
were  told,  by  our  spies,  yesterday,  that  Roller 
was  safe  in  the  stone  jug,  and  that,  unless  the 
sky  fell  before  this  morning,  he  would  inevitably 


44 


THE  ROBBERS* 


Act  II. 


go  the  way  of  all  flesh.  "  Follow  me,"  cried  the 
captain.  44  What  will  not  a  man  attempt,  when 
the  life  of  a  friend  is  in  danger  ?  We  will  rescue 

him  if  it  be  possible  if  not,  we'll  light  him  to 

eternity  by  such  a  torch  as  never  yet  graced  the 
funeral  of  an  emperor."  The  band  collected.  We 
employed  a  clever  fellow  to  apprize  Roller  of  our 
intention,  which  he  contrived  by  throwing  a  small 
note  into  his  soup. 

Rol.  I  despaired  of  success. 
Schw.  "We  waited  till  the  streets  were  cleared. 
All  the  inhabitants  followed  poor  Roller.  We 
heard  their  shouts,  and  now  and  then  could  dis- 
tinguish the  voices  of  the  psalm-singers.  "  Now," 
said  the  Captain,  "  execute  my  orders."  We  flew 
like  arrows,  set  fire  to  the  town  in  thirty-three 
places  at  once,  hurled  firebrands  into  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  powder-magazine,  into  the  church- 
es and  granaries  Hell  and  the  devil !  Before 

a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed,  the  north  east 
wind,  which  must  have  felt  a  grudge  against  the 
town,  came  to  our  assistance,  and  soon  made  the 
blaze  mount  above  the  chimnies.  We  ran  up  and 
down  the  streets  like  furies,  crying  "  Fire  !  Fire  !" 
Shrieks,  shouts,  and  confusion  pervaded  the  place. 
The  bells  began  to  ring  backwards,  when  sudden- 
ly the  powder-magazine  blew  up.  What  a  curs- 
ed explosion  did  it  make  !  One  might  have  fanci- 
ed that  our  earth  was  split  asunder,  that  the  sky 
was  driven  almost  beyond  space,  and  hell  sunk  at 
least  ten  thousand  fathoms  lower. 

RoL  Just  at  this  time,  my  attendants  cast  a 
look  behind  them.  The  town  appeared  like  So- 
dom and  Gomorrah.  The  horizon  seemed  to  be 
on  fire. — All  sulphur,  smoke,  and  flame.  The 
forty  hills  which  surround  the  town  re-echoed  with 
continual  explosions.  Terror  and  dismay  over- 
powered every  spectator  of  the  scene.    This  was 


Act  IL 


THE  ROBBERS. 


4 5 


the  decisive  moment.  I  availed  myself  of  it.  So 
near  was  my  fate  that  my  irons  had  been  already 
taken  off.  Away  I  flew  swift  as  the  wind,  while 
the  people  round  me  were  looking  back  like  Lot's 
wife.  After  having  run  about  sixty  yards,  I  threw 
my  clothes  away,  plunged  into  the  river,  and  swam 
under  water  till  I  thought  myself  no  longer  in 
danger.  I  then  landed  and  found  our  captain  wait- 
ing for  me  with  horses  and  clothes.  Thus  I  es- 
caped, and  here  I  am.  Moor,  Moor,  I  wish  you 
may  soon  be  in  a  scrape,  that  I  may  have  an  op- 
portunity of  paying  my  debt. 

Raz.  A  brutal  wish,  for  which  you  ought  to 
be  hanged.    But  it  was  a  capital  stroke. 

Rol.  No  one  can  know  what  it  was,  unless  he 
has  been  in  the  same  situation.  To  understand 
and  feel  it,  you  must  march  like  me  with  haif 
a  hundred  armed  attendants.  Then  you  must 
observe  the  damned  preparations — you  must  see 
all  the  ceremonies  cf  the  executioner — you  must 
look  at  the  infernal  machine,  to  which  every  re- 
luctant step  brings  you  nearer — you  must  hear 
those  horrid  psalm-singers — (their  cursed  twang 
still  rings  through  my  head) — you  must  hear  the 
croak  of  the  hungry  ravens,  who  are  picking  up 
the  half-corrupted  remnant  of  your  predecessor's 
carcase. — All  this  combined  with  the  happy  pros- 
pect of  eternity,  must  be  felt,  before  you  can  judge 
what  were  my  sensations.  I  would  not  undergo 
the  same  damned  process  for  all  the  wealth  which 
the  devil  can  bestow.  Death  is  no  more  than  a 
Harlequin's  leap,  but  the  preparations — oh,  curse 
them. 

Spi.  I  can't  help  thinking  of  the  powder-maga- 
zine. When  it  blew  up,  I'll  answer  for  it  that 
the  air  stunk  as  insufferably  of  brimstone,  as  if 
the  devil  had  hung  out  his  whole  wardrobe. 

Schw,    If  the  town  rejoiced  so  much  at  the 


4G 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  II* 


idea  of  seeing  our  friend  Roller  swing,  wliy  should 
not  we  rejoice  at  the  destruction  of  the  town  ? 
Schufterle,  do  you  know  how  many  lives  were  lost. 

Schuf.  Eighty-three,  I  was  told.  The  church- 
steeple  alone  buried  sixty  people  under  it. 

Cha. — (Who  has  listened  with  the  utmost  gravi- 
tj) — Roller,  thy  life  was  dearly  bought. 

Schw.  Pshaw  !  what  does  that  signify  ?  To  be 
sure,  if  they  had  been  men— but  mere  infants  in 
swaddling-clouts — silly  bedlams,  employed  in 
driving  the  flies  from  them — blind  chimney-cor* 
ner  cripples,  no  longer  able  to  find  the  door — what 
the  devil  are  they  worth  ?  All  who  could  move, 
were  gone  to  see  the  farce.  None  but  the  dregs 
of  the  town  remained  at  home. 

Cha.  Poor  unfortunate  creatures !  infants,  crip- 
J>les,  and  old  nurses,  said  you  ! 

Schuf.  Ay,  damn  'em — some  invalids  too — wo- 
men with  child — a  few  perhaps,  actually  in  la- 
bour. I  happened  to  pass  a  house  in  which  I 
heard  an  odd  noise — I  peeped  into  it,  and  what 
*lo  you  think  I  saw  ? — A  child — a  little  healthy 
•chubby  boy. — It  was  stretched  on  the  floor,  un- 
der a  table,  and  the  flames  were  gathering  round 
it. — "  Poor  little  devil,"  said  I,  "  why,  you  seem 
cold."  So  I  lifted  him  by  the  arm,  and  threw  him 
into  the  fire. 

Cha.  Didst  thou  so  ?  May  that  fire  burn  in 
thy  bosom  till  eternity  grows  grey.  Quit  my  pre- 
sence, monster,  and  dare  not  to  appear  again  be- 
fore me.  I  discharge  thee  from  my  band. — (Se- 
veral Robbers  begin  to  murmur. ) — What ! — do  you 
murmur  ? — Do  you  reflect  upon  the  justice  of  my 
sentence  ? — Who  dares  to  murmur  or  to  think 
when  Moor  commands  ? — Away  with  him,  I  say. 
There  are  more  among  you  who  are  ripe  for  my 
resentment.  I  know  you,  Spiegelberg.  But  I 
ehall  soon  investigate  more  narrowly  the  conduct: 


Act  II. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


47 


of  you  all ;  and  better  had  it  been  for  any  one  who 
dreads  this  scrutiny,  if  he  had  never  seen  the  light 
:  of  heaven. 

All  the  Robbers  withdraw  in  great  agitation. 
Cha. — {Walks  to  and  fro  with  rapid  strides.) — God 
of  vengeance,  canst  thou  blame  me  for  being  what 
I  am  ?  Do  not  those  engines  of  thy  indignation, 
pestilence  and  famine,  sweep  away  the  just  as 
well  as  unjust  ?  Who  can  command  the  flames  to 
kill  the  vermin,  but  to  spare  the  grain?  Here  do 
I  stand,  before  the  face  of  heaven,  and  feel  asham- 
ed to  own  my  degradation. — I,  who.  essayed  to 
hurl  the  thunderbolt  of  Jove,  have  murdered  pig- 
mies, while  the  Titans  triumph. — My  first  at- 
tempt has  failed.  I  feel  I  have  not  strength  to 
wield  the  avenging  sword  of  God.  Here,  then, 
<  I  renounce  the  audacious  project. — I  will  retire 
to  some  rude  corner  of  the  earth,  and  shun  the 
light  of  day. 

Enter  Roller  in  great  haste. 
Rol.     Captain,  we  are  discovered.  Several 
troops  of  Bohemian  cavalry  are  patroling  through 
the  forest.    Damn  blue  stockings,  they  have  be- 
jtrayed  us. 

Enter  Grimm. 
Gri.    Captain,  we  are  tracked  to  our  haunts 
We  are  surrounded  by  a  thousand  horsemen. 

Enter  Spiegei.berg. 
Spi.     Lost,  lost,  inevitably  lost !  Every  man 
of  us  is  hung,  drawn,  and  quartered.  Several 
thousand  hussars  and  dragoons  are  stationed  on 
the  heights,  and  prevent  all  possibility  of  escape. 

( Exit  Charles. 

Enter  Schweizf.r,  Razman,  Schufterle,  and 
other  Robbers,  from  various  quarters. 

Schw.  It  seems  Ave  have  routed  the  fellows  at 
last.    I  am  glad  to  see  these  knights  of  the  broad- 


48 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  11. 


sword.  I  have  long  wished  to  face  them. — Where 
is  our  captain? — Is  all  the  band  assembled!  We 
have  ammunition  enough,  I  hope  ? 

Raz.  Plenty,  plenty.  But  our  troop  consists 
of  no  more  than  eighty.  The  odds  are  thirty  to  one 
against  us  at  least. 

Schw.  So  much  the  better.  These  fellows  are 
paid  for  risking  their  persons — we  fight  for  liberty 
and  life.  Let  us  rush  upon  them  like  a  deluge  and 
fire,  as  if  all  the  demons  of  hell  were  let  loose. 
Where  is  our  captain  ? 

Spi.  He  forsakes  us  in  the  hour  of  distress.  Is 
there  no  possibility  of  escape  ? 

Schw.  Escape  1  When  you  attempt  it,  coward, 
may  you  sink  in  the  mire,  and  be  trampled  to 
death  !  Yes,  poltroon,  you  always  can  talk,  but 

when  you  see  a  pistol  You  chicken-hearted 

boaster,  if  you  don't  behave  like  a  man  to-day,  I'll 
sew  you  in  a  boar's  skin,  and  throw  you  to  the 
dogs. 

Raz.    The  captain  !  The  captain! 

Enter  Charles  slowly. 

Cha.  {Aside.) — I  have  seen  that  the  forest  is 
surrounded.  They  must  now  fight  with  the  cou- 
rage of  despair. — {Aloud.) — My  friends,  the  deci- 
sive hour  is  arrived.     We  must  conquer  or  die.  . 

Schw.  This  sword  shall  rip  up  a  few  of  them, 
by  heavens.  Lead  on,  captain.  We'll  follow  you 
into  the  jaws  of  death. 

Cha.  Let  every  man  load  his  fire  arms.  We 
are  not  in  want  of  ammunition,  I  hope  ? 

Schw.  Ammunition!  We  have  enough  to  drive 
the  earth  to  the  moon. 

Raz.  Each  of  us  is  armed  with  five  brace  of 
prstols,  and  three  carbines,  all  of  which  are  loaded. 

Cha.  That  is  well.  And  now  some  of  you 
must  climb  the  trees  or  hide  yourselves  in  the 


Act  IT. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


thickets,  in  order  to  fire  upon  them  before  they 
can  perceive  you. 

Schiv.    That  station  will  suit  you,  Spiegelberg. 

Cha.  The  rest  will  follow  me,  and  fall  like  fu- 
ries on  their  flank. 

Schvj.    I'll  belong  to  that  division,  captain. 

Cha.  Every  man  must  blow  his  whistle  that  our 
numbers  may  appear  more  formidable.  All  the 
dogs,  too  must  be  let  loose,  and  encouraged  to  at- 
tack the  ranks,  that,  when  separated  and  confused, 
they  may  rush  upon  our  fire.  Roller,  Schweizer, 
and  I,  will,  lead  the  main  division. 

Enter  Commissary. 

Gri.  Look,  Captain.  Here  comes  one  of  the 
bloodhounds  of  justice. 

Schzv.  Down  with  him  1  Don't  let  him  utter  a 
word. 

Cha.    Silence  !  I  will  hear  him. 
Com,      With  your  permission,  gentlemen. — -I 
am  vested  with  authority  by  the  tribunal  of  justice, 
and  every  hair  of  my  head  is  guarded  by  eight  hun- 
dred soldiers. 

SchzvK   Comfortable  tidings  for  us  ! 

Cha.  Peace,  comrade.  Be  brief,  Sir.  What 
have  you  to  say  ? 

Com,  I  am  a  delegate  of  that  august  power, 
which  decides  on  life  and  death.  I  shall  address 
one  word  to  you,  and  a  couple  to  your  band. 

Cha.     (Leaning  on  his  sword,)  Begin,  then. 

Com.  Horrible  murderer  1  Are  not  thy  hands 
stained  with  the  blood  of  a  murdered  count — a 
count  of  the  holy  Roman  empire  ?  Hast  thou  not  da- 
red, with  sacrilegious  arm,  to  break  into  the  tem- 
ple of  the  Lord,  and  bear  away  the  consecrated 
vessels  ?  Hast  thou  not  hurled  firebrands  into  our 
religious  town,  destroyed  our  church,  and  mur- 
dered many  pious  Christians  ?  (JVith  uplifted 
(vol.  ii.)  E 


30  THE  ROBBERS.  Act  II, 

hands,)  Oh,  abominable  act,  the  stench  of  which 
has  mounted  to  the  throne  of  the  Most  High,  and 
may,  perhaps,  provoke  him  to  destroy  the  world, 
and  summon  all  into  his  heavenly  presence. 

Cha.  Thus  far  you  have  conducted  yourself  in 
a  masterly  manner.  But  now,  Sir,  to  the  point. 
What  information  does  this  most  august  tribunal 
of  justice  send  to  me  through  you  ? 

Com,  It  sends  what  thou  never  wilt  deserve  to 
receive.  Look  round  thee,  fell  incendiary.  On 
every  side,  far  as  thine  eye  can  see,  our  cavalry 
is  stationed.  Escape  is  impossible.  As  surely 
as  cherries  grow  upon  these  oaks,  and  peaches 
on  these  pines-— so  surely  will  you  turn  your  backs 
on  them  in  safety. 

Cha,  Do  you  hear  this,  comrades  ? — But  pro- 
ceed. 

Com,  Hear,  then,  how  mercifully  the  tribunal 
proceeds.  If  thou  wilt  instantly  surrender,  own 
thy  guilt,  and  sue  for  a  mitigation  of  thy  punish- 
ment, the  rigour  of  the  law  will  not  be  exercised 
agrdnst  thee,  but  justice  will  become  a  loving 
mother.  She  will  shut  her  eyes  to  half  thy  guilt, 
and  only  condemn  thee  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel. 

Schtv,  Captain  !  Let  me  cut  his  throat.  By 
God  I  should  like  to  make  his  blood  gush  from 
every  pore. 

Rol,  Captain !  Hell,  damnation,  and  the  de- 
vil I  Captain  !  How  he  bites  his  lip.  Captain, 
let  me  split  his  skull,  and  manure  the  earth  with 
his  brains,  if  he  has  got  any. 

Cha,  Hold  !  Let  no  one  dare  to  touch  him.  (To 
Commissary.)  Look  you,  Sir.  Here  stand  se- 
venty-nine men,  whose  commander  I  am.  Not 
one  wThom  you  bebold  is  skilled  in  military  tactics, 
or  can  dance  to  the  music  of  artillery.  Opposed 
to  us  are  eight  hundred  soldiers,  who  have  been 
regularly  disciplined.    Now  attend  to  me.  Thus 


Act  II. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


5J 


speaks  Moor,  the  Captain  of  these  robbers  :  True 
it  is,  that  I  have  murdered  a  count  of  the  empire, 
that  I  have  hurled  fire-brands  into  your  supersti- 
tious town,  that  I  have  caused  the  death  of  many 
pious  Christians — but  fancy  not  that  this  is  alK 
(Stretches  forth  his  right  hand.)  You  see,  that, 
on  each  finger  of  this  hand,  I  wear  a  valuable  ring. 
This  ruby  belonged  to  a  prime  minister,  whom 
my  sabre  felled  to  the  earth,  when  he  and  his 
prince  were  hunting.  From  the  most  abje6l  si- 
tuation he  had  raised  himself  to  royal  favour.  His 
elevation  was  obtained  by  crimes  innumerable, 
which  weeping  widows  and  forsaken  orphans  dai- 
ly proved. — This  diamond  I  drew  from  the  finger 
of  a  state-treasurer,  who  disposed  of  offices  and 
posts  of  honour  to  the  highest  bidder.  This  agate 
was  the  property  of  a  monk,  whoXn  I  strangled 
with  my  own  hand,  because  he  had  lamented,  in 
the  pulpit,  that  the  inquisition  was  no  longer  in 
repute.  I  could  recite  to  you  more  anecdotes  re- 
specting these  my  rings,  were  I  not  already  sorry 
to  have  thrown  away  so  many  words  upon  you. 

Com.    How  can  a  villain  be  so  proud  ? 

Cha.  As  yet  you  have  not  heard  me  speak  with 
pride — but  now  you  shall,  sir.  Go,  and  report 
my  words  to  that  august  tribunal,  which  decides 
on  life  and  death  according  to  its  pleasure-  lam 
not  one  of  those  mean  thieves,  who  enter  into  corn- 
pad  with  darkness,  and  creep  into  a  dwelling  un- 
der covert  of  the  night.  What  I  have  done,  I 
doubtless  shall  be  doomed  to  read  in  the  Eternal 
Judge's  register,  but  on  his  miserable  earthly  re- 
presentatives, I  shall  not  waste  another  word. — 
Tell  your  employers,  that  retaliation  is  the  trade 
I  follow.  Tell  them,  that  vengeance  is  my  oc- 
cupation.   {Turns  away  with  contempt.) 

Com.  Thou  dost  refuse,  then,  all  mercy  and 
compassion. — To  thee,  I  shall  say  no  more/  (Ad- 


52 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  tL 


dresses  himself  to  the  band,)  Listen  to  me,  all  of 
you.  I  am  authorized  to  state,  that  if  you  will 
instantly  bind  and  deliver  into -my  hands  this  abo- 
minable villain,  your  crimes  shall  no  longer  be  re- 
membered. The  holy  church  will  receive  you  as 
sheep,  who  had  strayed  from  her  flock,  and  the 
road  to  preferment  shall  be  open  to  every  one  of 
you.  Here  is  the  general  pardon,  signed  and 
.sealed.  ( Delivers  it  to  Schweizer  pith  a  trium- 
phant smile.)  How  does  your  majesty  like  this  ?— 
Bind  him.  and  be  free. 

Cha,  You  hear  his  offer — why  this  appearance 
of  surprize — this  look  of  hesitation  ?  He  offers 
you  liberty,'  and  you  are  already  prisoners.  He 
offers  you  life,  and  you  must  feel  he  can  do  this, 
because  you  are  already  doomed  to  die.  He  as- 
sures you,  that  yqu  may  obtain  honourable  offi- 
ces, and  what  can  be  the  consequence  of  your  re- 
fusal, but  disgrace  and  infamy  ?  He  announces 
to  you  heaven's  forgiveness,  though  you  are  al- 
ready damned.  There  is  not  a  hair  upon  your 
heads  which  will  not  blaze  inhell's  eternal  fire- 
Do  you  still  hesitate  ?  Is  there  a  choice  between 
celestial  biiss  and  torture  everlasting  ? — Aid  my 
endeavours  to  persuade  them,  sir. 

Com,  ( Aside.)  Some  daemon  surely  speaks 
through  him.    He  makes  me  tremble. 

Cha.  How  !  Still  no  answer  1  Do  you  fancy 
that  your  arms  and  intrepidity  can  extricate  you 
from  your  present  situation  ? — Look  round  you— 
look  on  every  side.  The  idea  of  escape  is  child- 
ish and  absurd. — Or,  do  you  flatter  yourselves, 
that  you  will  fall  like  heroes  ?  What  can  induce 
you  to  think  thus  ?  My  late  delight  in  scenes  of 
devastation  ;  Oh,  do  not  thus  deceive  yourselves. 
—Among  you  all,  there  is  not  one  like  Moor. 
You  are  mere  thieves — poor  paltry  tools,  which 
I  employ  to  execute  my  nobler  projects — despica- 
bly mean  as  is  the  hangman's  halter. — Thieves 


A  ct  II. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


cannot  fall  like  heroes.  Thieves  have  a  right  to 
be  afraid  of  death. — Hear  you  not  how  their  trum- 
pets echo  through  the  forest  ?  See  you  not  how 
their  sabres  glitter  all  around  you  ?  How  S  Still 
irresolute  ?  Are  you  mad  ? — Think  not  that  I  am 
grateful  for  my  life — I  am  indignant  at  the  sacri- 
fice you  make.    (Trumpets  are  heard.) 

Corn.  (Confounded  by  his  dignitj.)  Never  did 
I  see  a  man  like  this  i  I  must  away. 

Cha.  Or  are  you  fearful  that  I  shall  destroy 
myself,  and  thereby  counteract  the  pardon  offer- 
<ed  for  delivering  me  alive  ? — your  fears  are  ground- 
less. Here  I  throw  away  my  dagger — my  pistols 
— and  my  poison. — What!  Still  irresolute  ! — You, 
perhaps,  imagine,  I  shall  oppose  the  man  who 
attempts  to  seize  me. — See  1 — I  hind  my  right  hand 
to  this  branch  of  oak — now  opposition  is  impos- 
sible. A  child  might  overpower  me. — Who  will 
be  first  to  betray  me  ? — -Who  will  first  forsake  his 
captain  in  the  hour  of  peril  ? 

A'j.7.  (With  frantic  Violence.}  Hell  seize  him, 
if  there  be  one  in  our  band  1  (Brandishes  his  sword.) 
Damn  the  villain,  who  refuses  to  defend  our  captain! 

Schw.  ("Fears  the  pardon,  and  throws  it  in  the 
jace  of  the  commissary,)  Take  that,  and  begone, 
scoundrel^—  our  pardon  is  our  swords  and  fire-arms. 
Tell  the  senate  which  sent  you,  that  you  did  not 
find  one  traitor  in  Moor's  band. — Save  the  captain  ! 

All.  Save  the  captain  1  Save  him  1  Save  the 
captain  1 

Cha.  ( Joyfully  extricating  himself  from  the  tree.) 
Comrades — friends — brothers  !  Now  we  are  free. 
I  feel  a  tenfold  vigour  nerve  this  arm.  I  could 
oppose  a  host. — Death,  or  liberty  !  They  shall, 
at  all  events,  not  make  us  prisoners.  Follow  me. 
( All  draws  their  swords  and  exeunt.  The  charge  is 
immediately  sounded.  , 

END    OF    THE    SECOND  ACT. 
E  2 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IIL 


ACT  III. 

Scene — A  Garden.  Amf-lia  is  discovered  in  a  pen- 
sive attitude.  Enter  Francis.  Both  are  in  deep 
mourning. 

Fra.  Do  I  find  you  here  again,  dear  enthusi- 
ast ?  As  soon  as  you  stole  away  from  table,  my 
guests  were  no  longer  in  spirits. 

Ame.  Shame  on  you  for  having  guests  1 — Does 
not  your  father's  funeral  dirge  still  vibrate  in  your 
ears  ? 

Fra.  Why  this  incessant  lamentation  ?  Let  the 
dead  rest  in  peace,  and  make  the  living  happy. 
I  come  

Ame.    And  when  will  you  go  again  ? 

Fra.  Amelia,  do  not  treat  me  with  this  cold 
disdain.    I  come  to  tell  you — - — 

Ame.  That  Francis  Moor  is  lord  of  these  do- 
mains. 

Fra.  Exactly.  Maximilian  reposes  in  the  tomb 
of  his  forefathers,  and  I  become  the  lord  of  these 
domains.  Yet  even  these  do  not  satisfy  me,  dear 
Amelia.  You  know,  that  you  have  always  made 
my  father's  house  your  home.  He  loved  you  with 
a  parent's  tenderness.  You  will  never  forget 
that. 

Ame.  Never,  never  !  How  could  I  endeavour, 
by  revelry  and  mirth,  to  banish  from  my  mind  the 
recollection  of  his  goodness  ? 

Fra.  I  admire  your  sentiments,  Amelia.  What 
you  owed  my  father  for  his  goodness,  you  have 
now  an  opportunity  of  paying  to  his  son.  Charles 

is  dead,  and  Francis  offers  [Aside.)    By  my 

soul,  so  flattering  is  the  thought,  it  even  is  too 
much  for  woman's  pride. — ( Aloud- )  Francis  tram- 
ples on  the  hopes  of  many  a  noble  family.  Fran- 


Act  III. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


55 


cis  offers  a  forsaken  orphan,  his  heart,  his  hand, 
t  his  wealth;  his  castle,  his  estates.  Francis,  whom 
all  his  neighbours  fear  and  envy,  declares  himself 
:  Amelia's  voluntary  slave. 

Ame.  Why  do  not  heaven's  lightnings  blast 
thee,  whilst  thou  makest  the  declaration  ?  Hast 
thou  not  been  guilty  of  fratricide  ?  Hast  thou  not 
robbed  me  of  my  Charles  ?  And  thinkest  thou 
that  Amelia  will  accept  thy  hand, — thou  monster  I 

Fra.  Be  not  so  violent,  most  gracious  princess. 
True  it  is,  that  Francis  does  not  fawn  and  flatter 
like  a  cooing  Celadon.  True  it  is,  he  has  not 
learnt,  like  the  sighing  shepherds  of  Arcadia,  to 
complain  of  fair  Amelia's  cruelty  to  grottos  and 
to  rocks. — No.  Francis  speaks  ;  and  if  he  be  not 
answered — he  commands. 

Ame.  Vile  reptile  ! — Thou  command  me  !  And 
if  I  scorn  thy  great  commands  ? 

Fra.  That  you  will  not.  I  know  a  most  ex- 
cellent receipt  for  conquering  female  pride  and 
obstinacy — a  cloister. 

Ame.  Welcome  thought !  In  a  cloister  I  shall 
not  be  gazed  upon  by  thee,  thou  basilisk,  but  shall 
have  leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  virtues  of  my 
Charles  !— Take  me  to  a  cloister  instantly. 

Fra.  Ha !  Is  it  so  ! — I  thank  you  for  having 
taught  me  the  art  of  tormenting  you. — Like  a  fu- 
ry, will  I  drive  the  recollection  of  this  Charles 
from  your  heart.  My  disgusting  form  shall  lurk 
'behind  the  image  of  your  minion  like  the  dragon 
which  sleeps  on  subterraneous  treasure.  By  thy 
hair  will  I  drag  you  to  the  alter, — with  a  dagger 
in  my  hand,  will  I  force  from  your  lips  the  nup- 
tial vow. 

Ame.  (Strikes  him.)  Take  this,  then,  as  my 
dowry. 

Fra.  C Enraged.)  Damnation  !— -I  will  think  of 
tenfold  vengeance. — Thou  shalt  not  he  my  wife — 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  III. 


no,  that  were  too  great  an  honour. — Thou  shall 
be  my  paramour,  that  every  peasant's  wife  may- 
point  the  finger  of  derision  at  thee. — Ay,  gnash 
thy  teeth — dart  fire  and  murder  from  thine  eyes.. 
To  me  a  woman's  fury  is  a  treat — it  makes  her 
lovelier — more  desirable.-— Come. — Thy  strug- 
gles shall  enhance  the  value  of  my  triumph,  and 

sweeten  the  delight  of  forced  embraces  Come 

with  me  to  the  alter. — This  instant  thou  shalt  go. 

( Dragging  her  away. J 
■Amc.  ( Falls  ron  his  neck. J  Forgive  me,  Fran- 
cis. ( As  he  is  about  to  embrace  her,  she  draws  the 
sword  from  his  side,  and  hastily  steps  back.  J  See'st 
thou  villain,  what  I  now  can  do  ?  Thou  art  in  my 
power.    1  am  a  woman — but  a  woman  roused  to 

fury  Dare  to  approach  me,  and  with  this 

sword  I'll  stab  thee  to  the  heart.  My  uncle's  spi- 
rit will  direclmy  hand. — Instantly  begone.  ( Drives 
him  awav.)  Ha  1 — I  breathe  more  freely.  I  feel 
myself  endowed  with  strength  and  fury — such  as 
animate  the  mettled  steed  and  tiger. — To  a  cloi- 
ster, said  he  ?  Thanks  for  the  happy  thought. 
There  I  shall  find  a  sale  retreat.  A  cloister  is 
the  right  abode  for  hopeless  love. 

(Exit. 

Scene*  changes  to  a  hill  near  the  Danube.  The 

-•  *  .»  " 

'Robbers  are  stretched  under  various  trees  on  the 
summit,  while  their  horses  are  grazing  on  the 
side  of  the  hill. 

Ciia.  Here  I  must  rest  a  while.  (Throws 
himself  on  the  earth.)  My  sinews  are  unstrung — 
my  tongue  is  dry  as  a  potsherd.  I  would  ask  you 
to  fetch  me  a  little  water  from  the  neighbouring 
stream,  but  you  are  all  as  weary  as  myself. 

( Exit  Schw.  unobserved.) 

Gri.  We  have  swallowed  all  our  wine,  too. — 
How  gloriously  the  sun  sets  to-night ! 


Act  111. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


.5  7 


Cha»  {Gazing  at  it.)  Thus  worthy  of  admirati- 
on dies  a  hero. 

Gri.    Yon  seem  deeply  affected. 

Cha.  When  I  was  a  boy,  my  favourite  thought 
was  that  I  would  live  and  die  like  yonder  glorious 
orb.  {Suppressing  his  emotion.)  It  was  a  boyish 
thought. 

Gri.    True,  captain. 

Cha.  {Draws  his  hat  over  his  face.)  There  was 
a  time  Comrades,  leave  me  to  myself. 

Gri.  Captain  !  Captain  I—  Damnation  !  How 
his  colour  changes  ! 

Raz.    Death  and  the  devil !  What  ails  him  ? 

Cha.  There  was  a  time,  when  I  could  not  sleep 
if  I  had  forgotten  my  evening-prayer. 

Gri.  Have  you  lost  your  senses?  Who  would 
be  guided  by  the  mere  fancies  of  a  boy  ? 

Cha.  C Rests  his  head  on  Grimm's  Breast. J 
Brother  I    Brother  ! 

Gri.    Come,  come.    Don't  be  a  child,  I  beg. 

Cha.    Would  that  I  were  a  child  again  I 

Gri.  Pshaw  !  Cheer  up,  man. — Look  at  this 
picturesque  country,  and  enjoy  the  lovely  evening. 

Cha.    Yes,  friends — this  world  is  so  beautiful- 

Gri.    Right  1  Now,  you  talk  properly. 

Cha.    This  earth  so  admirable — 

Gri.  True.  I  like  to  hear  you  when  you  are 
in  this  humour. 

Cha.  And  I  so  ugly  in  thi3  beauteous  world-— 
I,  monster  on  this  admirable  earth.  ( Sinking  back.) 
Lost,  lost  for  ever ! 

Gri.    Pray  do  not  talk  thus. 

Cha.  My  innocence !  My  innocence  !  See — 
every  creature  has  stepped  forth  to  enjoy  the  vivi- 
fying warmth  of  spring.  Why  must  this  heavenly 
scene  be  hell  to  me  ?  Yet  thus  it  is. — All  on  this 
earth  are  happy — all  united  by  the  mild  spirit 
of  concord — all  one  family— whose  Father  is 
above  them  but  he  is  not  my  Father  I, 


bo 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  III. 


alone,  am  rejected — I,  alone,  am  banished  from 
the  empire  of  the  good.  (Wildly  looking  at  the  rob- 
bers.) Surrounded  by  murderers — bound  by  ad- 
amantine chains  to  guilt  and  infamy. — 

Raz.    Unaccountable  !  I  never  saw  him  thus. 

C'la.  Oh,  that  I  could  return  into  my  mother's 
womb  !  Oh,  that  I  could  be  born  a  peasant  1  I 
would  labour  till  the  blood  rolled  from  my  temples 
to  buy  the  luxury  of  a  noonday's  slumber — the 
rapture  of  one  solitary  tear. 

Gri.  ( To  the  rest.)  Don't  disturb  him.  The  pa- 
roxysm is  already  decreasing. 

Cha.    There  was  a  time,  when  my  tears  flowed 

willingly. — Oh  days  of  peace  !  Thou  castle  of 

my  fathers — and  ye  green  delightful  valleys,  shall 
I  no  more  behold  you  ? — Oh  beauteous  groves,  so 
oft  enjoyed  in  childhood — will  you  not  cool  my 
burning  bosom  with  your  zephyrs  ?  Mourn  with 
me,  nature.  Never,  never  will  those  happy  days 
return.    Past,  past — irrevocably  past ! 

Enter  Schweizer,  with  water  in  his  hat. 

Schw.  Drink,  Captain.  Here  is  water  enough 
— and  cold  as  ice. 

Gri.  Why,  Schweizer,  you  are  bleeding.  What's 
the  matter  ? 

Schw.  Nothing,  man.  To  be  sure,  the  joke 
might  have  cost  me  a  limb  or  two.  As  I  was 
running  on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  which  consists  of 
nothing  but  sand,  down  sunk  the  whole  mass,  and 
away  rolled  I  full  ten  yards,  to  the  bottom. — 
There  I  lay  awhile  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  recovered 
my  five  senses,  I  found  a  clear  spring  close  to  me, 
among  some  gravel.—'4  Well,"  though  I,  "  For- 
tune has  not  tried  to  break  my  neck  for  nothing. 
Here  is  some  good  fresh  water  for  the  captain." 

Cha.  ( Returns  Schweizer's  hat,  and  throws  a 
few  drops  of  water  upon  his  face.)  The  dust  and 


Act  III. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


59 


dirt  have  hidden  the  wounds  on  your  forehead, 
which  you  received  from  the  Bohemian  cavalry. 
— The  water  was  excellent,  Schweizer. — Your 
scars  become  you. 

Schiv.    Pshaw  !  There  is  room  for  thirty  more. 

Cha.  Yes,  comrades.  The  battle  was  bloody, 
though  we  only  lost  a  single  friend. — Roller  died 
a  noble  death.  Had  he  fallen  in  any  other  cause, 
a  monument  would  have  been  erected  to  his  me- 
mory.— Let  this  suffice.  (Wipes  a  tear  away.) 
How  many  of  our  enemies  were  slain  ? 

Schw.  Sixty  hussars,  ninety-three  dragoons, 
and  about  forty  rifle-man— in  all,  two  hundred. 

Cha.  Two  hundred  for  one. — Every  man  of 
you  has  a  claim  upon  this  head.  (Takes  off  his 
hat.)  Here,  in  the  presence  of  you  all,  I  raise  my 
!  soul,  I  never  will  forsake  you. 

Schw.  Captain,  don't  swear.  Should  happier 
prospects  open  to  you,  perhaps  you  may  repent. 

Cha.  By  the  ashes  of  Roller,  I  never  will  for- 
sake you. 

Enter  Kosinski. 

Kos.  (Aside.)  I  was  told  that  I  should  find 
him  in  this  country. — Ha  ' — who  are  these  fel- 
lows ?  Should  they  be — they  are,  they  are.— J  will 
:  address  them. 

Gri    Look — who  comes  here  ? 

Kos.  Pardon  me,  gentlemen.  I  know  not 
whether  I  am  right  in  my  conjecture. 

Cha.    Who  should  we  be,  if  you  were  right  ? 

Kos.  Men. 

Schw.    We  have  proved  that,  I  think,  captain. 
Kos.    I  am  in  search  of  men,  who  can  look  un- 
appalled  at  death,  and  sport  with  danger  as  with 
a  tame  dragon — men  who  rate  liberty  at  a  far 
|j  higher  price  than  life — men,  whose  very  names, 
l  while  welcome  to  the  oppressed  and  needy,  make 
courage  fly,  and  tyranny  turn  pale. 


I 


60  THE    ROBBERS.  Act  III, 

Schiv.  I  like  this  fellow. — Friend,  you  have 
found  the  very  people  you  are  seeking. 

Kos,  I  trust  I  have — and  trust,  too,  I  shall  be 
socn  allowed  to  call  them  comrades. — You,  then, 
will  doubtless  tell  me,  where  I  can  find  your  cap- 
tain— the  intrepid  Moor. 

Schiv.  (Slinking  hands  ivith  him.)  You  and  I 
are  sworn  friends. 

Cha.    (Approaching.)  Do  you  know  this  Moor  ? 

Kos.    You  are  he. — In  that  mien  who  could 

behold  you  without  knowing  you?  (Gazes  at  him 
for  some  time.)  Often  have  I  wished  to  see  the 
man,  who  sat  with  destru6lion-dealing  look  upon 
the  ruins  of  Carthage. — Now  I  no  longer  wish  to 
see  him. 

Schiv.    A  noble  lad  by  my  soul. 

Cha.    And  what  has  Drought  you  hither  ? 

Kos.  My  more  than  cruel  fate.  Oh  Captain, 
I  have  been  wrecked  on  the  tempestuous  ocean  of 
this  world.  I  have  been  doomed  to  see  my  hopes 
destroyed,  and  nothing  now  remains  but  the  tor- 
turing recollection  of  my  loss,  which,  I  feel,  will 
rob  me  of  my  senses,  if  I  do  not  try  to  dissipate 
all  thought  by  aclion. 

Cha.  Another  wretch,  by  heaven  abandoned  I 
—Proceed. 

Kos.  I  entered  early  into  the  army — misfor- 
tune followed  me. — I  embarked  for  the  East  In- 
dies — the  vessel  in  which  I  sailed  struck  against 
a  rock.  Various  have  been  my  projects,  but  all 
alike  have  failed. — At  length,  the  fame  of  the  I 
great  hero,  Moor  (the  great  incendiary  some 
term  him),  reached  my  ears.  1  have  travelled 
many  miles  with  the  fixed  determination  of  serv- 
ing under  him,  if  he  will  accept  my  services.— - 
Oh  captain,  do  not  refuse  me. 

Schiv.  (Springs  into  the  air.)  Huzza  !  Huzza! 
Another  Roller  I — A  noble  fellow  for  the  band ! 

'  J 


Act  III. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Gl 


Cha.    What  is  your  name  ? 
Kos.  Kosinski. 

Cha.  Kosinski,  thou  art  a  thoughtless  boy,  and 
art  about  to  take  a  most  decisive  step,  without 
reflection.  Here  thou  wilt  find  no  tennis  to  amuse 
thee. 

Kos.  I  understand  what  you  mean  to-  imply. 
I  am  only  four  and  twenty  years  of  age — -but  I 
have  seen  many  a  sword  glitter  before  me,  and 
have  heard  many  a  ball  whiz  round  me. 

Cha.  Have  you,  then,  learnt  the  use  of  arms, 
merely  that  you  may  assassinate  a  harmless  tra- 
veller, for  the  sake  of  a  paltry  dollar,  or  murder 
helpless  women  ?  Go,  go.  You  have  escaped 
from  your  nurse,  because  you  saw  the  rod  in 
her  hand. 

Schiv.  Captain,  what  in  the  devil's  name  do 
you  mean?  Would  you  dismiss  such  a  fellow  as 
this  ?  Why,  he  is  a  perfect  Hercules. 

Cha.  Because  your  airy  schemes  have  failed, 
you  wish  to  become  a  villain,  an  assassin.  Boyish 
idea  !  Know  you  what  it  is  to  become  an  assassin? 
You  may  sleep  soundly  after  beheading  thistles, 
but,  after  committing  murder — 

Kos.  I  will  be  answerable  for  every  murder 
which  you  direct  me  to  commit. 

Cha.  How  wondrous  clever  1  Think  you  that  a 
manis  to  be  caught  by  flattery  ?  How  can  you  know 
whether  I  am  not  tormented  by  bad  dreams,  or 
whether  I  shall  not  turn  pale  with  terror  on  the 
bed  of  death  ?  How  many  things  have  you  already 
done,  for  which  you  thought,  while  doing  them, 
that  you  must  one  day  be  accountable  ? 

Kos.  But  very  few.  I,  however,  reckon  in 
the  number,  my  journey  in  search  of  Moor. 

Cha.  Did  your  tutor  ever  put  into  your  hands 
the  adventures  of  Robin  Hood  ?  such  incautious 
blockheads  should  be  chained  to  the  galleys.  They 
(vol.  ii.)  F 


62 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  III. 


heat  the  imagination  of  the  child,  and  tickle  its 
vanity  with  the  mad  idea  of  renown.  Is  this  your 
object,  Kosinski  ?  Wish  you  to  purchase  immor- 
tality by  murdering  your  fellow-creatures?  Believe 
me,  ambitious  youth,  no  laurel  decks  the  assassin's 
brow — no  triumph  awaits  the  conquests  of  banditti 
— but  execration,  danger,  death,  and  inf&my.  Do 
you  see  that  gibbet  on  the  hill  ? 

Spi.  {IValkijig  to  and fro  nvith  a  peevish  look*}  How 
stupid  !  How  unpardonably  stupid  !  Is  this  the 
proper  way  to  increase  the  band  ?  I  should  have 
talked  in  another  style. 

Kos.    What  can  he  fear,  who  fears  not  death? 

Cha.  Excellent!  You  have  learnt  Seneca  by 
heart,  I  perceive.  But  be  assured,  young  man, 
you  will  not  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  nature— 
you  will  not  blunt  the  arrow  of  anguish  by  these 
sententious  arguments.  Consider  well,  my  son. 
(Tales  his  hand. )  Think  that  you  hear  the  coun- 
sel of  a  father.  Learn  the  depth  of  the  abyss,  ere 
you  spring  into  it.  Reflect  whether  you  have  in 
this  world  any  distant  chance  of  comfort — for  the 
moment  may  arrive  when  you  awake,  and  find  it 
is  too  late.  By  joining  us,  you  at  once  bid  adieu 
to  all  conne6tion  with  mankind.  To  do  this,  you 
must  be  more  than  human,  or — a  demon.  Once 
more,  then,  let  me  warn  you,  my  son.  If  any 
spark  of  hope  still  glimmer  in  your  breast,  avoid 
the  horrible  confederacy  you  came  to  join  in.  You 
mav  have  deceived  yourself.  You  may  mistake, 
for  strength  of  mind,  what  will,  in  the  end,  drive 
you  to  despair.  Believe  what  Moor  says  to  you— . 
and  fly. 

Kos.  It  cannot  be.  I  will  not  leave  you.  Since 
my  entreaties  have  not  moved  you^  hear  the  true 
recital  of  my  sorrows.  You  yourself  will,  then, 
place  a  poniard  in  my  hand — you  yourself  will 

.  Friends,  seat    yourselves  around  me,  and 

listen  attentively. 


Act  III. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


6S 


Cha.    I  will  listen  attentively. 

Kos.  Know,  then,  I  am  a  Bohemian  nobleman. 
By  the  early  death  of  my  father,  I  came  into  pos- 
session of  a  considerable  manor.  The  country, 
in  which  I  lived,  was  a  paradise — for  it  contained 
an  angel.  It  contained  a  lovely  girl,  adorned  with 
all  the  charms  of  blooming  youth,  and  chaste  as 
is  the  light  of  heaven.  But  to  whom  do  I  say 
this  ?  Such  descriptions  suit  not  men  who  never 
loved,  who  never  were  beloved. 

Schw,     Look  !    our  captain  is  as  red  as  fire. 

Cha.  Hold,  Kosinski  !  No  more  at  present !  I'll 
hear  the  rest  to-morrow — soon — at  another  time 
—when  I  have  seen  blood. 

Kos.  Blood,  say  you  ?  Nay,  hear  me  now. 
Mine  is  a  tale  which  calls  for  blood.  She  was 
not  of  noble  extraction,  but  her  look  subdued  all 
prejudice.  With  captivating  bashfulness,  she  lis- 
tened to  my  vows,  and  it  was  fixed  that,  in  two 
days,  I  should  lead  my  Amelia  to  the  altar. 
(Charles  starts  and  rises.)  Amidst  the  bustle  of 
preparations  for  our  union — while  I  was  anticipat- 
ing the  happiness  which  awaited  me,  I  was  sum- 
moned by  an  express  to  court. — I  obeyed.— Let- 
ters, which  teemed  with  treason,  were  produced, 
and  I  was  accused  of  having  written  them.  I 
blushed  at  the  infamous  charge.  My  sword  was 
taken  away- — I  was  thrown  into  prison — my  senses 
forsook  me. 

Schw,  And  in  the  mean  time — go  on.  I  smell 
a  rat. 

Kos.  There  I  lay  a  month,  and  grieved  for  my 
Amelia,  who  would,  I  knew,  feel  pangs  unutter- 
able. At  length  the  prime  minister  came  to  my 
dungeon,  congratulated  me  on  the  discovery 
of  my  innocence,  politely  informed  me  I  was  at 
liberty,  and  returned  my  sword.  Triumphantly 
I  flew  to  my  castle,  to  my  Amelia — as  I  hoped. 


i*  THE   ROBBERS*  Act  111. 

She  was  gone.  She  had  been  borne  away  at  mid- 
night— no  one  knew  by  whom,  or  whither.  Like  j 
lightning  a  suspicion  darted  through  my  brain. 
1  flew  to  town — made  enquiries  at  court.  All  ri- 
vetted  their  eyes  upon  me-— -but  none  would  give 
me  the  wished-for  information.  At  length  I  dis- 
covered my  Amelia  through  a  grated  window  of 
the  palace — she  threw  me  a  note. 

Schiv.    Ay,  ay,  I  thought  how  it  would  be. 

Kos.  .  Hell  and  damnation  i — She  had  been  al- 
lowed to  chuse  whether  she  would  see  me  die,  or 
become  the  prince's  mistress.  A  contest  arose 
between  her  honour  arid  affection.  The  latter  con- 
quered — and  I  was  saved. 

Schiv.    How  did  you  a6l  then. 

Kos.  After  having  read  her  letter,  I  stood  root- 
ed to  the  spot.  Blood  was  my  first — my  last— • 
my  only  thought.  Foaming  with  fury,  I  ran  home, 
chose  a  three-edged  sword,  and  flew  to  the  min-  . 
liter's  house — for  he  had  been  the  infernal  pan- 
dor.  I  must  have  been  previously  observed  from 
the  windows,  for  I  found  all  the  apartments  lock- 
ed. I  was  informed  that  the  minister  was  gone 
to  the  palace.  I  repaired  thither — the  attendants 
assured  me  they  had  not  seen  him.  I  returned — 
burst  open  the  doors — found  him — and  was  on 
the  point  of  dispatching  him,  when  five  or  six 
servants  wrested  the  sword  from  my  hand. 

Schw.    {Stamps  with  violence.)   The  devil  seisee 
him  ! — So  he  escaped  ? 

Kos.  I  was  again  imprisoned — brought  to  tri- 
al— and  sentenced — as  a  mark  of  peculiar  lenity 
— to  be  banished  from  my  native  land  for  ever. 
My  estates  w  ere  given  to  the  minister,  my  Ame- 
lia remained  in  the  claws  of  the  tiger,  and  now 
wastes  her  life  in  fruitless,  lamentation,  while  my 
revenge  must  bend  to  the  iron  yoke  of  despotism. 
Schw.    {Rises  and  draws  his  sword.)    This  lis 


Act  III. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


65 


water  for  our  mill.  Captain  !  Here  is  employ- 
ment for  us. 

Cha.  {Who  has  been  walking  to  and  fro  in  violent 
agitation,  turns  hastily  to  the  Robbers.)  I  must  see 
her. — Rise  1 — Prepare  for  instant  departure.  Ko- 
sinski,  your  hand.  You  shall  rem  am  with  us. 
Prepare  for  instant  departure,  I  say. 

Robbers.    Captain,  where — 

Cha.  Who  dares  to  ask  a  question  ?  (With  vio- 
lence to  Schweizer.)  Traitor,  you  wish  to  make 
me  abandon  my  projecr,  but  by  the  hope  of  hea- 
ven— 

Schw.  I  a  traitor  !  Lead  into  hell,  if  you  like, 
I'll  follow  you. 

Cha.  ( Falls  on  his  neck.)  I  believe  you,  bro- 
ther. She  wastes  her  life  in  lamentation.  Fol- 
low me,  all  of  you.  We  must  reach  Franconia 
in  a  week.  ( Exeunt. 


END    OF   THE    THIRD  ACT. 


«(3  THE   ROBBERS.  Act  IV, 


ACT  IF. 

ScEtfE — AGallery,  Charles  and  Amelia  are  dis- 
covered— the  former  in  disguise.  Both  are  intently 
gazing  at  a  portrait*  The  habit  of  a  nun  lies  on 
the  table. 

Cha.  (Deeply  affected,)  He  was  an  excellent 
man. 

Ame.  The  picture  seems  to  interest  you  much, 
Count  Brand. 

Cha.  {With  his  eye  still  rivetted  upon  it.)  An  ex- 
cellent—a  godlike  man — And  he  is  dead  ? 

Ame,  Yes — he  has  past  away  like  all  the  joys 
oflife.  {Gently  taking  his  hand.)  Count,  there  is  no 
happiness  in  this  world. 

Cha.  True — most  true.  Has  sad  experience 
taught  you  this?  You  cannot  be  much  more  than 
twenty  years  of  age. 

Ame,  And  yet  have  learnt  that  all  who  live 
must  die  in  sorrow — that  all  who  gain  must  feel 
the  pang  of  losing. 

Cha,  {Keenly  looking  at  her.)  Have  you  lost  any 
thing  ? 

Ame.    Any  thing  1  Every  thing. 

Cha.  And  hope  you  to  forget  your  loss,  when 
clad  in  yonder  sacred  garment  ? 

Ame.    I  do.  Shall  we  proceed,  my  Lord  ? 

Cha.  Why,  in  such  haste  ? — Whose  portrait 
is  that  on  the  right  ?  He  has  an  unfortunate  coun- 
tenance. 

Ame.  This  on  the  left  is  the  late  Count's  son — 
the  present  owner  of  the  castle. 

Cha,    His  only  son  ! 

Ame,    Let  us  proceed,  I  beg. 

Cha.    But  this  picture  on  the  right  ? 

Ame,  You  will  not  accompany  me  into  the  gar- 
Men  ? 


Act  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


57 


Cha.  With  pleasure — but  inform  me  first 
Howl  You  are  in  tears,  Amelia. {Exit  Amelia  has- 
tily.) She  loves  me  still.  The  treacherous  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  loves  me.  That  is 
the  sofa  upon  which  I  oft  have  drank  the  nectar 
of  her  lips.  This  is  the  castle  in  which  I  was  born. 
Wretched  as  I  am,  the  golden  recollection  of  those 
happy  days  I  once  enjoyed,  still  cheers  my  soul. 
Here  should  I  have  lived,  an  honour  to  my  house 
—the  admiration  of  my  vassals — here  should  I  a 
second  time  have  felt  the  joys  of  childhood,  while 
observing  the  offspring  of  my  dear  Amelia  at  their 
gambols — here  should  I — No  more  !  No  more  1 
Let  me  return  to  that  dread  station  which  Fate  has 
appointed  me  to  fill. — Fare^el,  dear  castle  of  my 
fathers.  Thou  didst  witness  my  delight  in  earlier 
years — now  witness  my  despair.  {Is  goings  but 
suddenly  stops,)  Must  I  never  see  her  more  ? 
Must  I  renounce  all  hopes  of  ever  kissing  those 
Sweet  lips  ?  Must  I  depart  without  one  last  fare- 
wel  ? — No.  Once  more  I  will  behold  her — once 
more  I  will  embrace  her— that  I  may  doubly  feel 
my  wretched  fate  in  having  lost  her.  Once  more 
I'll  quafF  the  sweet  voluptuous  poison — and  then 
away,  far  as  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  all  the  de- 
mons of  despair  can  drive  me.  {Exit. 

Enter  Francis,  in  deep  meditation. 

Era.  Begone  from  me,  thou  torturing  image 
i  ■  Vile  coward  that  I  ami  Of  what  or  whom 
|  am  I  afraid  ?  This  count  has  been  but  a  few  hours 

in  my  castle — yet  to  me  he  seems  a  spy  employed 
j  by  hell  to  watch  my  every  step.    Surely  I  should 

know  his  features.    There  is  a  something  great 

—•something  familiar  to  me  in  his  wild  and  sun- 
i  burnt  countenance,  which  makes  me  tremble. 
[(Rings.)  I  must  be  on  my  guard.    A  plot  is  laid 

against  me. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IV. 


Enter  Daniel. 

Dan.    What  are  your  lordship's  commands  ? 

Fra.  {After  having  stedfastly  gazed  at  him  for 
some  time.)  Nothing — But  yes.  Bring  me  a  gob- 
let of  wine  dire&ly.  {Exit  Daniel. 

Who  knows  but  this  fellow  will  confess,  if  I  use 
threats  to  force  the  secret  from  him  ?  I'll  rivet  my 
eve  so  keenly  on  him,  that  his  features  shall  be- 
come the  mirror  of  his  conscience.  (Turns  to  the 
portrait  if  Charles.)  That  long  scraggy  neck— 
those  thick  black  bushy  eye-brows — those  bold 
fiery  eyes.  (Suddenly  starting  back.)  Ha  I  Does' 
hell  inspire  me  with  the  dread  suspicion  ? — It  is 
Charles. 

Enter  Daniel,  with  wine. 

Place  it  on  that  table. — Now  look  stedfastly  at 
me — eye  to  eye. — How  the  fellow's  knees  totter  ! 
— Villain,  confess.    What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Ban.  Nothing,  my  Lord,  as  J  hope  to  be  saved. 

Fra.  Drink  this  wine.  How  ? — Dost  thou  hes- 
itate Instantly  confess  what  thou  hast  mixed 

with  this  wine. 

Dan.    Gracious  God  !  Mixed  with  the  wine  ! 

Fra.  Yes,  wretch.  Thou  hast  mingled  poison 
with  it.  Art  thou  not  as  white  as  snow  !  Confess, 
I  say.  Who  gave  thee  the  poison?  The  count? 
Did  not  the  count — 

Dan.  Good  Heavens,  my  Lord* — the  count  gave 
me  nothing. 

Fra.  (Seizes  him. J  I'll  strangle  thee,  grey- 
headed liar. — Nothing !  Why,  then,  did  I  sec 
him  and  Amelia  and  thee  whispering  together? 
Did  I  not  see  her,  after  all  her  modest  vows,  cast 
amorous  glances  at  him?  Did  I  not  see  her  tears 
fall  into  the  wine  which  he  so  eagerly  swallowed  ? 
Yes — though  it  was  behind  me,  by  my  soul  I  saw 
it  in  the  mirror. 


Act  IV*  THK   ROBBERS.  66 

Dan.    God  knows  I  was  quite  ignorant  of  it. 

Fra.  What !  Darest  thou  deny  it  ?  Darest  thou 
tell  thy  master  that  he  lies?  What  mode  of  dis- 
patching me  have  you  agreed  upon  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  smother  me  at  midnight — or  to  cut  my  throat 
or  to  poison  me  Out  with  the  truth  1  I  know  all. 

Dan.  As  I  hope  for  God's  assistance  when  I 
need  it,  all  I  have  said  is  true. 

Fra.  This  time  I'll  forgive  you,  Daniel.  But 
no  doubt  he  lined  your  purse — he  pressed  your 
hand  more  than  is  usual — as  if  you  were  an  old 
acquaintance.    Did  he  not,  Daniel  ? 

Dan.    Never,  my  Lord. 

Fra.  He  said,  for  example,  that  he  had  known 
you  before — that  you  almost  ought  to  know  him 
— that  the  scales  would  soon  fall  from  your  eyes— 
that  yes,  yes, — he  said  this,  Daniel. 

Dan.    Not  a  word  of  it. 

Fra.  That  he  would  be  revenged — amply  re- 
venged. 

Dan.    Not  a  syllable  of  it,  my  Lord. 

Fra.  How  !  Recollect  yourself. — Surely  you 

heard  him  say  that  he  knew  your  old  master  very 
well— particularly  well — that  he  loved  him — loved 
him  most  sincerely-— as  sincerely  as  a  son  loves  a 
father. 

Dan.  I  recollecl  I  did  hear  him  say  something 
of  that  kind. 

Fra.  (Alarmed.)  Did  you? — Did  you,  indeed? 
He  said  he  was  my  brother — did  he  ? 

Dan.  I  never  heard  him  say  that.  But  while 
Miss  Amelia  was  shewing  him  the  pictures  in  the 
gallery,  I  observed  him  suddenly  stop  at  the  por- 
trait of  my  late  master.  Miss  Amelia  pointed  to 
it,  and  said,  "  An  excellent  man,"  which  he  re- 
peated and  v.iped  his  eyes. 

Fra.  Enough !  Run  I  Haste !  Send  Herman 
hither.  (Exit  Daniel. 


ro 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  If. 


All  doubt  is  at  an  end.  It  is  Charles.  He  is  come 
to  demand  his  estate.  Have  I,  then,  sacrificed 
my  nightly  rest — have  I  removed  huge  rocks, 
and  levelled  mountains,  to  be  thus  defeated  ?  Have 
I  rebelled  against  humanity,  only  to  become  the' 
viclim  of  an  outcast  ?  No,  no.  One  way  is  al- 
ways open  to  me.  By  murder  I  surely  can  escape. 
What  a  blockhead  must  he  be,  who,  after  hav- 
ing partly  done  his  work,  stands  idly  looking  whe- 
ther time  will  finish  it. 

Enter  Herman. 

Ha!  Welcome,  my  Eurypylus — welcome,  my 
trusty  agent. 

Her.    (In  a  sullen  tone.)  You  have  sent  for  me. 

Era.  True,  Herman.  I  wish  you  to  end  what 
you  have  so  ably  begun. 

Her.    Indeed ! 

Fra.  Shall  1  order  the  carriage?  We  can  ar- 
range the  matter  while  we  take  an  airing. 

Her.  No  ceremony,  if  you  please.  The  ar- 
rangements which  we  have  to  make  to-day,  can  be 
as  well  fixed  upon  in  this  room  as  elsewhere.  At 
all  events, I  can  say  a  word  or  two  which  will  spare 
your  lungs  some  exertion. 

Fra.    C Alarmed.)    What  do  you  mean? 

Her.    That  you  promised  me  Amelia's  hand. 

Fra.    Herman ! 

Her.  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  she  would  be- 
come the  play-thing  of  your  will,  and  that,  then, 
she  should  be  mine  ?»  ( In  a  tond  of  defiance. ) 
What  have  you  now  to  say,  Count  Moor  I  • 

Fra.    Nothing  to  you — I  sent  for  Herman. 

Her.  No  evasion.  Why  was  I  summoned  ?  A- 
gain  to  be  the  fool  I  have  been  ?  Again  to  prop  the 
ladder  that  the  thief  may  mount  ? 

Fra.  ( As  if  he  had  suddenly  recollected  some- 
thing )  True.    We  must  not  forget  that.   I  wish- 


Act  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


71 


ed  to  have  some  conversation  with  you  respect- 
iing  the  d«wry. 

Her.    This  is  mockery — or  something  worse. 
Moor,  be  careful — drive  me  not  mad.    We  are 
s  without  witnesses,  Moor-  Confide  not  in  a  villain, 
though  you  yourself  have  made  him  such. 

Fra.  {With  a  haughty  mien.)  Dare  you  con- 
duct yourself  thus  towards  your  Lord  ?  Tremble, 
slave. 

.  iTer.  ( Contemptuously.)  At  your  displeasure, 
! perhaps?  What  is  your  displeasure  to  a  man, 
who  is  incensed  at  himself?  I  already  detest  you 
as  a  villain,  Moor — do  not  make  me  deride  you 
as  a  blockhead.  I  can  open  sepulchres — -I  can 
raise  the  dead.    Which  of  us  is  now  the  slave  ? 

Fra.  (With  great  condescension.)  Friend,  act 
rationally — keep  your  promise. 

Her.  Peace  !  To  ac\  rationally,  were  to  abhor 
thee,  villain — to  keep  my  promise  were  madness. 
[A  promise  made  to  whom  ? — To  him  by  whom 

perfidy  is  practised  as  a  virtue.  But  patience, 

patience  !  Revenge  is  subtle. 

Fra.  Right  !  I  am  glad  I  recollect  it.  You 
I  lately  lost  a  purse  containing  a  hundred  louisdor's. 
!I  had  almost  forgotten  the  circumstance.  Take 
back  what  is  your  own,  good  Herman.  (Gives 
him  a  purse.) 

Her.  {Ttiroivs  it  contemptuously  at  the  feet  of 
Francis)  Damned  be  the  vile  Iscariot-bribe  I  Has 
hell  employed  thee  to  complete  my  ruin  ?  You 
once  imagined  you  had  made  my  poverty  the  pan- 
der of  my  heart — but  you  are  mistaken,  Moor ; 
grossly  mistaken.  The  former  purse  of  gold  is 
useful — it  supplies  with  food — a  certain  person. 

Fra.  {Alarmed.)  Herman  !  Herman  ! — Do  not 
make  me  fancy — If  you  have  done  any  thing  con- 
trary to  my  will,  you  are  a  traitor  to  your  master. 

Her.   (In  a  triumphant  tone.)  Indeed  ! — I  rejoice 


73 


THE  KOSUERS. 


Act  IV. 


to  hear  it.  Mark  me,  then.  I  will  soon  prepare 
a  banquet,  at  which  your  infamy  shall  be  pro- 
duced, and  every  nation  of  the  earth  shall  be  in- 
vited  to  it.  Do  you  comprehend  this,  mighty,, 
revered,  and  gracious  master  ? 

Fra.  Villain  1  traitor!  devil  I  (Strikes  his  fore- 
head, )  Fool  that  I  was,  to  place  confidence  in 
such  a  creature.    (Throws  himself  upon  a  couch.) 

Her.  Ha  1  ha  1  ha  ! — Behold  the  cautious  sly 
projector — foiled  at- his  own  weapons. 

Fra.  It  is  a  truth,  then,  a  confirmed  truth, 
that  no  thread  is  so  finely  spun,  so  soon  torn  asun- 
der, as  the  tie  of  guilt. 

Her.  Vastly  fine  1 — Devils  are  beginning  to 
moralize. 

Fra.  {Suddenly  rises,  and  addresses  Herman  with 
a  malignant  smile,)  The  discovery  will  refie<St 
great  credit  on  yourself,  no  doubt  ? 

Her.  ( Claps  his  hands.)  Excellent !  Inimita- 
ble !  You  act  your  part  most  admirably.  First 
you  drag  the  easy  fool  into  the  mire — then  vent 
your  rage  against  him,  because  he  attemps  to  ex- 
tricate himself.  What  a  refinement  of  villany  ! 
But,  Count,  ( Laying  his  hand  on  Francis's  shcuU 
der,)  you  are  not  yet  thoroughly  acquainted  witl 
me.  You  have  not  yet  learnt  how  far  the  loser  of 
the  game  dare  venture.  What  says  the  pirate  in 
such  a  situation  ?— Throw  a  match  into  the  pow- 
der magazine,  and  blow  friend  as  well  as  foe  into 
the  air." 

Fra.  ( Runs  to  the  ivall,  end  seizes  a  pistol. ) 
Treason  I — I  must  be  resolute. 

Her.  ( Dravjz  a  pistol  from  his  pocket.)  Give 
yourself  no  trouble.  I  took  care  to  be  prepared 
before  I  came. 

Fra.  (  Throws  the  pistol  away,  and  falls  on  the 
ccuch.)  Don't  betray  me,  Herman,  till  I  have  re- 
flected how  to  ac~t. 


Act  IV, 


THE  ROBBERS. 


73 


Her,  You  mean  till  you  have  hired  a  dozen 
bravos,  who  will  make  me  dumb  for  ever.  But 
(in  a  lower  tone )  I  have  committed  the  secret  to 
paper,  and  my  heirs  will  read  it.  {Exit, 
v-  Fra.  Is  this  a  dream  ? — Where  was  my  cou- 
rage ? — where  my  presence  of  mind  ?  Alas  I  even 
my  own  creatures  betray  me.  The  pillars  of  my 
fortune  are  decayed — the  furious  foe  already  falls 
upon  me.  I  must  instantly  determine  in  what  way 
it  is  best  to  act.    How  if  I  go  in  person,  and  stab 

him  in  the  back.  A  wounded  man  is  a  mere 

infant. — It  is  resolved.  ( Is  walking  away  with  a 
Jirm  step,  but  stops,  as  if  overpowered  by  sudden  debi- 
lity. J  Who  are  these  men  behind  me  ?  ( Rolling 
his  eyes  with  horrible  wildness.)  I  never  saw  their 
faces  before — their  looks  are  terrific— -Away  1 
away  ! — Courage  I  certainly  have— the  courage 

of  a  But  if  a  mirror  were  to  betray  me — or  my 

shadow— or  the  sound  created  by  raising  my  arm 
to  inflict  the  deadly  blow  ?  Huh  ! — my  hair  bris- 
tles towards  heaven — my  every  limb  quakes— 
(A  dagger  falls  from  his  breast.)  A  coward  i  am 
not — perhaps  I  am  too  tender-hearted.  Yes  : 
these  are  the  last  struggles  of  departing  virtue.  I 
admire  them.  I  should  be  a  monster,  were  I  to 
assassinate  my  brother.  No,  no,  no.  I  will  re- 
vere these  relics  of  humanity.  I  will  not  murder. 
Thou  hast  conquered,  Nature.  I  still  feel  some- 
thing which  is  like  affection. — He  shall  live.  {Exit, 

Scene  changes  to  a  Garden,  in  which  an  Arbour 
is  seen. 

Enter  Amelia. 
Ame,  "  You  are  in  tears  Amelia"  And  that 
he  said  with  so  much  sympathy — Oh,  I  felt  as  if 
time  had  grown  young  again — as  if  the  golden 
spring  of  love  returned  while  he  spoke.  Me- 
thought  I  heard  the  nightingale— methought  I 
I  (vol.  ii.)  G 


74 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IV. 


smelt  the  perfume  of  the  rose — methought  I  lay 
entranced  upon  his  neck — all  was  the  same  as 
when  my  Charles  was  here — and,  surely,  if  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  deign  to  revisit  earth,  it  is  my 
Charles. — Ha  !  false  perfidious  heart,  how  cun- 
ningly thou  veil'st  thy  guilt.  No,  no.  Away 
from  my  heart  ye  treacherous  impious  thoughts ! 
In  this  bosom,  where  my  Charles  is  buried,  no 
other  image  ever  shall  reside.  Yet,  why  do  my 
thoughts  so  constantly,  so  irresistibly,  dwell  up- 
on this  stranger  ?  The  image  of  my  only  love 
mixes  with  his,  until  their  features  are  united — 
and  to  think  of  one  must  be  to  think  of  both.  "  You 
are  in  tears,  Amelia." — Ha  ! — I  must  begone. 
To-morrow  I  shall  take  the  veil.    The  veil  !  How 

sweet  was  that  idea  lately  1 — But  now  Oh  my 

heart,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me  !  Thou  didst 
convince  me  that  what  I  felt  was  resolution.  Liar 
that  thou  wert — it  was  despair.  (Seats  herself  in\ 
the  arbour,  and  hides  her  face.) 

Enter  Herman. 

Her.  {Aside.)  I  have  plunged  boldly  in — now 
now  let  the  storm  rage  on,  even  if  the  billows 
overwhelm  me.    {Aloud.)    Miss  Amelia ! 

Ame.  {Alarmed.)  A  spy  1  What  do  you  want 
here  ? 

Her.  I  bring  you  news,  most  pleasant,  yet 
most  horrible.  If  you  be  disposed  to  pardon  ont\ 
who  has  injured  you,  prepare  yourself  to  hear 
most  wondrous  tidings. 

Ame.  I  have  no  recollection  for  injuries — nc 
ear  for  news. 

Her.  Do  you  not  lament  the  death  of  a  youth 
whom  you  loved  ? 

Ame.  {Gazes  at  him.)  Child  of  misfortune. 
what  justifies  you  in  asking  such  a  question  ? 

Her.  {Mournfully  casting  his  eyes  on  the  earth. 
Hatred  and  love. 


Act  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


7  5 


Ame.    Can  any  one  love  who  inhabits  this  re- 
fgion. 

Her.  {Looking  round).  \es — too  much — even 
to  the  perpetration  of  villainy. — Did  not  your  un- 
cle lately  die  ? 

Ame.    He  was  to  me  a  father. 

Her.  The  lover  and  the  father  are  alive.  {Rush- 
es away.) 

Ame.  C Stands  rooted  to  the  spot — then  wildly 
hxclaims )  Charles  alive  !  ( Is  about  to  run  after 
IfHerman.J 

Enter  Charles. 

Cha.    Whither  in  such  haste,  lady  ? 

Ame.  (Starts  back  with  a  frantic  gesture. )  Gape 
Ibeneath  me,  earth  ! 

Cha.    I  come  to  take  leave  of  you. — But  

[jHeavens  1  In  what  extreme  agitation  do  I  find 
I  you  ! 

Ame.     Go,  count  stay — Happy   would  it 

[  have  been  for  me,  had  you  never  come  ! 
||    Cha.    Would  that  have  made  you  happy  ?  Fare- 
wel.     (  Turns  suddenly  round  and  is  going.) 

Ame.  For  heaven's  sake  stay.  That  was  not 
|my  meaning.  (Wringing  her  hands.)  Yet — oh 
■God,  why  was  it  not  ? — Count,  what  have  I  done, 
Ithat  you  should  make  me  criminal  ?  How  did  I  in- 
ijure  you  by  that  affection  which  you  have  under- 
I  mined  ? 

Cha.    You  pierce  to  my  very  soul,  lady. 

Ame.  My  heart  was  pure  till  I  saw  you.  Oh 
Ithat  my  eyes  had  lost  their  faculty  1  They  have 
fcorrupted  my  heart. 

Cha.  Say  not  so.  Your  eyes  and  heart  are 
■  guiltless,  I  am  sure. 

Ame.  His  very  look  ! — Count,  I  beseech  you 
I  to  avert  those  looks.  They  rouse  rebellion.  My 
■treacherous  fancy  tells  me  every  moment  that  I 


re 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  It 


see  himself. — Go,  count — return  in  the  hateful 
form  of  a  crocodile,  and  you  will  be  more  wel- 
come. 

Cha.  (With  a  look  of  fervent  affection.)  That  ifff 
not  true,  Amelia. 

Ame.  (With  increasing  tenderness. )  Should  you 
deceive  me,  count — should  you  be  trifling  with 

this  poor  weak  heart  But  how  can  falsehood 

dwell  in  an  eye,  which  beams  with  the  expression 
cf  his  ? — Alas  !  Happy  were  it  for  me,  should  you 
be  false — happy,  should  I  be  obliged  to  hate  you 

 yet,  oh,  how  wretched  should  I  be,  might  I 

not  love  you.  (Charles  presses  her  hand  to  his  lips 
with  rapture.)  Your  kisses  burn  like  lire. 

Cha.    My  soul  burns  in  them. 

Ame.  Go. — I  may  yet  be  saved. — The  mind  of 
man  is  firm. — Let  your  firmness  save  me.  Co.— 

Cha.  It  cannot  be. — I  see  you  tremble — and 
my  firmness  vanishes.  Here  I  am  fixed  for  ever. 
{Riding  his  face  in  her  bosom.)  Here  will  I  die. 

Ame.  (Quite  confounded.)  Away  I — Leave  me. 
— What  have  you  done,  Count  ? — Away  with 
those  lips  !  fShe  struggles  feebly  against  his  violent 
caresses.)  An  impious  fire  creeps  through  my 
veins.  (Weeping  and  in  a  tone  of  tenderness.)  Must 
you  come  from  a  distant  country  to  destroy  a  pas- 
sion, which  had  even  defied  the  power  of  death  I 
(Clasps  him  with  increasing  fervour  in  her  arms. ) 
God  forgive  you,  Count  1 

Cha.  (Si ill  embracing  her.)  If  such  be  the  se- 
paration of  the  soul  and  body,  how  blissful,  how 
rapturous  must  it  be  to  die. 

Ame.  Here,  where  you  now  stand,  has  he 
stood  a  thousand  times,  and  at  his  side,  I,  who, 
when  at  his  side,  forgot  both  heaven  and  earth. 
Here, — here  his  eye  wandered  over  the  lovely 
charms  of  nature — he  seemed  to  feel  how  grate- 
ful was  the  sight,  and  she  appeared  to  dress  her- 


ct  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


77 


self  more  gayly  while  her  prince  admired  her. 
i  Here  he  would  listen  to  the  celestial  music-  of  the 
nightingale.  Here  he  would  pluck  fresh  roses 
for  his  loved  Amelia.  Here — here  he  pressed  me 
to  his  heart,  and  glued  his  lips  to  mine.  (Charles, 
no  longer  able  to  control  his  passion,  presses  his  lips 
to  her's — she  meets  him  with  equal  rapture,  and  they 
remain  for  some  time  lost  in  ecstacy — Amelia  then 
sinks  almost  in  a  swoon,  upon  the  seat  of  the  ardour.) 
Come,  Charles,  and  be  revenged.  My  oath  is 
broken. 

Cha.  (Steps  from  her  with  a  frantic  look.)  This 
must  be  some  snare  designed  by  hell  for  my  de- 
struction— I  am  so  happy.    (Gazes  at  her.) 

Ame.  (Espies  her  ring,  and  hastily  rises.)  What  ? 
Art  thou  still  upon  my  finger — thou,  that  hast 
been  a  witness  of  my  perjury  ?  Away  !  (Gives  the 
ring  to  Charles. )  Take  it — take  it,  beloved  sedu- 
cer, and  with  it  my  soul's  adored — my  all — my 
Charles.    (Falls  back.) 

Cha.  ( Becomes  pale.)  Almighty  God,  is  this 
thy  sovereign  will  ? — It  is  the  very  ring  I  gave 
her  as  a  pledge  of  my  affeclion. — She  has  return- 
ed it. — Oh  horrible  ! 

'  Ame.  ( Alarmed.)  Heavens  !  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  How  wildly  your  eyes  roll — and  how  pale 
are  your  lips ! — Wretch  that  I  am  1  Do  you  so 
soon  repent  the  blissful  crime  ? 

Cha.  (Suppressing  his  emotions.)  Nothing — 
nothing.  ( Raising  his  eyes.)  I  am  still  a  man. 
( Draws  his  ring  from  his  hand  and  gives  it  to  Ame- 
lia. J  Take  this,  sweet  fury  of  my  heart,  and  with 
it  my  soul's  adored- — my  all — my  Amelia. 

Ame.    (Springs from  the  seat.)    Your  Amelia! 

Cha.  ( Mouriifully.)  Oh,  she  was  a  lovely  girl, 
and  faithful  as  an  angel.  When  I  left  her,  she 
gave  me  a  ring,  I  her  another,  as  pledges  of  our 
mutual  faith.    She  heard  that  I  was  dead,  and 

G  2 


78 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Aa  in 


remained  constant  to  the  dead.  She  heard  again, 
that  I  was  living,  and  became  faithless  to  the  liv- 
ing. I  flew  into  her  arms — my  transports  equalled 
heavenly  bliss.  Think  what  my  heart  was  doom- 
ed to  feel.  She  returned  to  me  my  ring — I  her's 
to  her. 

Ame.  ( Looks  with  amazement  on  the  earth.) 
Strange  1  Dreadfully  strange  ! 

Cha.  True,  my  good  child. — Man  has  much, 
very  much  to  learn,  ere  he  can  dive  into  the  great 
decrees  of  that  Being,  who  laughs  at  his  vows, 
and  weeps  over  his  projects. — My  Amelia  is  an 
unfortunate  girl. 

Ame.    She  is — because  she  rejected  you. 

Cha.  She  is — because  she  loves  me.  How,  if* 
I  were  an  assassin  ?  How  if,  for  every  kiss  be- 
stowed by  her,  I  could  recount  a  murder  ? — Would 
not  my  Amelia,  then,  be  unfortunate  ? 

Ame.  She  would,  but  what  you  mention  is  im- 
possible. He,  whom  you  resemble,  could  not 
bear  to  see  a  fly  suffer. 

Cha.  What  I  have  said,  is  true.  There  is  a 
world,  in  which  the  veil  will  be  removed  entirely, 
and  those  who  loved  will  meet  again—with  hor- 
ror. Eternity  is  its  name.  Yes.  My  Amelia 
is  unfortunate,  for  when  she  thought  she  clasped 
an  angel  in  her  arms,  she  held — a  murderer. 

Ame.  (Overpowered  with  anguish.)  Horrible  ! — 
I  will  weep  for  your  sad  fate. 

Cha.  {Takes  her  hand,  and  holds  the  ring  before 
her  eyes.)  Weep  for  your  own.        {Exit  instantly. 

Ame.  {Recognizes  the  ring.)  Charles  1  Charles  ! 
O  heaven  and  earth  1  Swoons.) 

Scene — changes  to  a  forest,  in  which  the  ruins  of  a 
tower  are  discernible.  The  moon  shines  bright, 
and  the  Robbers  are  stretched  on  the  earth. 
Spiegelbfrg  and  Razman  advance  from  the  rest. 
Raz.    It  is  almost  midnight,  and  our  captain 

is  not  yet  arrived. 


Act  IF. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


70 


Spi.  A  word  in  confidence,  Razman,  Captain, 
said  you?  Who  made  him  our  captain?  Did  he 
not  usurp  the  title,  when  it  justly  belonged  to  me? 
What !  Are  we  to  expose  our  lives,  and  buffet  all 
the  storms  of  Fate,  merely  that  we  may  be  called 
the  slaves  of  Moor, — slaves,  when  we  might  be 
princes  ?  By  God,  Razman,  I'll  bear  it  no  longer. 

Raz.  Hell  and  damnation — nor  I.  But  what 
can  we  do  ? 

Spi.  Can  you  ask  that,  who  have  dispatched 
many  a  fine  fellow  !  Razman,  if  you  be  the  man 
I  think  you — he  is  missing — some  begin  to  think 
him  lost — Razman,  his  hour  is  come. — How  ! 
Don't  you  spring  into  the  air  at  the  idea  of  being 
free  ?  Why,  you  surely  don't  understand  me. 

Raz.    The  idea  is  tempting,  I  must  own. 

Spi.  Right !  Follow  me  then.  I  observed  the 
road  he  took.  Come.  A  brace  of  pistols  seldom 
fail,  and  then — 

Schw.  ( Springs  up. )  Villain,  I  have  overheard 
you.  I  remember  how  you  behaved  in  the  forests 
of  Bohemia.  Like  a  coward  you  began  to  skulk, 
when  the  enemy  appoached.  At  that  time  1  swore 
by  my  soul — -Down  to  hell,  assassin  !  ( Both  draw 
and  begin  to  Jight.) 

Robbers.  ( Rising  in  confusion.)  Murder!  Mur- 
der ! — Schweizer  1— Spiegelberg  ! — Tear  them 
asunder. 

Schw.  (Stabs  Spiegelberg.)  There  lie  and  rot. 
— Be  quiet,  comrades. — Don't  let  this  poltroon 
disturb  you.  The  scoundrel  always  hated  the 
captain,  and  has  not  one  scar  upon  his  whole  bo- 
dy.— He  wanted  to  lie  in  ambush — to  murder  un- 
seen.— Have  we  toiled  thus  long,  to  be  sent  out 
of  the  world  in  that  way  ?  Have  we  passed  our  lives 
amidst  fire  and  smoke,  to  be  caught,  like  rats, 
in  a  trap. 

Gri.  But,  damn  it — the  captain  will  be  in  a 
terrible  fury. 


80 


T II E  ROBBERS. 


Act  IV. 


Schw.  Let  me  settle  that.  Schufterle  ac~led 
in  the  same  way,  and  now  he  is  gibbeted,  as  the 
captain  prophesied.     ( A  shot  is  heard. J 

Gri.  Hark  !  a  shot !  ( A  second  is  heard.)  An«« 
other !  Huzza  !  It  is  the  captain. 

Kos.  Patience  !  He  must  fire  a  third.  ( A  third 
shot  is  heard.) 

Gri.  It  is  the  '  captain. — Conceal  yourself, 
Schweizer,  till  we  have  explained  to  him — 

Enter  Charles. 

Scfliv.  ( Meets  him.)  You  are  welcome,  cap- 
tain.— I  have  been  somewhat  rash  since  you  left 
us.  (Leads  him  to  the  dead  body.)  You  shall  de- 
cide between  this  man  and  me.  He  wished  to 
waylay  and  murder  you. 

Cha.  ( After  a  pause,  during  which  his  eyes  have 
been  fixed  upon  the  corpse. )  Wonderful  and  incom- 
prehensible are  thy  ways,  O  God  of  vengeance. 
— Was  it  not  this  man,  who  sung  the  syren  song, 
which  made  me  what  I  am ? — Consecrate  the  sword 
by  which  he  fell,  to  the  avenger. — Schweizer,  this 
was  not  done  by  you. 

Schiv.  By  my  soul  it  was,  and  the  devil  take 
me,  if  I  think  it  the  worst  thing  I  ever  did.  (  Throws 
the  sword  upon  the  body  nvith  a  look  of  dissatisfac- 
tion.) 

Cha.  (In  deep  meditat'wn.)  I  understand  thee 
—heavenly  Judge — I  understand  thee. — The 
leaves  fall  from  the  branches.— The  autumn  of  my 
life  is  come. — Remove  this  body  from  my  sight. 
( He  is  obeyed.) 

Gri.  Nov/,  captain,  give  us  orders.  What 
shall  we  do  next  ? 

Cha.  Soon — soon  all  will  be  accomplished— 
Since  I  left  you  I  have  lost  myself.  Sound  your 
horns.  I  must  recal  former  days  to  my  mind, 
and  gather  strength  from  the  remembrance* 


THE  ROBBERS. 


81 


Kos.  It  is  midnight,  captain,  and  three  days 
have  elapsed  since  we  closed  our  eyes.  Sleep 
hangs  heavy  on  them. 

Cha,  Can,  then,  assassins  taste  the  balm  of 
soft  repose  r  Why  am  I  not  allowed  to  sleep  ? 
Sound  your  horns,  I  say.  I  must  hear  warlike 
music,  that  my  torpid  spirit  may  awake. — ('The 
Robbers  play  a  march,  while  Charles  walks  to  and 
fro  with  gloomy  mien.  At  length  he  suddenly  inter* 
rupts  them,)  No  more  !-— Good  night.  In  the 
morning  I  shall  issue  my  commands. 

Robbers.  ( Stretch  themsche  on  the  earth.)  Good 
Jlight  captain.  (  They  sleep.) 

Cha.    Goodnight  forever.  It  is  a  night,  to 

which  no  morning  will  succeed.—  Ye  spirits 

numberless  of  those,  whom  I  have  murdered,  think 
you  that  I  shall  tremble?  Never,  never.  Your 
tearful  dying  groans,  your  black  and  strangled 
features,  your  horrid  gaping  wounds  are  but  links 
of  an  indissoluble  chain,  by  which  Almighty  Fate 
has  bound  me.  My  nurse's  humours  may  have 
caused  them,  my  father's  temper,  or  my  mother's 
blood.  Why  has  no  Perillus  made  a  bull  of  me, 
and  fed  me  with  the  flesh  of  man.  ( Raises  a  pis- 
tol to  his  head.)  Time  and  eternity  embrace  each 
other  over  this  little  weapon.  Dread  key,  which 
locks  behind  me  the  prison  of  life  and  opens  the 
abode  of  everlasting  freedom.  Tell  me,  oh  tell 
me  whither  thou  wilt  lead  me. — To  some  strange 
land,  which  no  one  ever  circumnavigated.  Hu- 
man nature  shudders  at  the  awful  thought,  while 
busy  fancy  introduces  unknown  phantoms,  and 

appals,  still  more,  the  shrinking  soul.  Away 

with  these  ideas  !  Man  must  not  hesitate.  Be 
what  thou  may'st,  thou  world  without  a  na.me, 
Moor  shall  still  be  faithful  to  himself.  Be  what 
thou  wilt,  if  I  but  take  my  soul.  The  external 
form  is  but  the  colour  which  the  fancy  paints. 


82 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IV. 


I  myself  am  my  heaven  or  my  hell. — ( Looking  to- 
wards the  horizon. J  Wert  thou  disposed,  Creator 
of  the  world,  to  place  me  in  some  blasted  region, 
which  thou  hadst  banished  from  thy  sight,  where 
darkness,  solitude,  and  dreary  desolation  were 
my  only  prospects — my  visionary  brain  would 

people  the  expanse.  But  such  is  not  thy  will. 

— Perhaps,  after  having  led  me,  step  by  step, 
through  scenes  of  misery  and  horror,  thou  wilt, 

at  last,  annihilate  me.  May  I  not  be  able  to 

brake  the  thread  of  the  next  life,  as  easily  as  I 
shall  do  it  now  ?— At  all  events  it  is  a  liberty,  of 
which  I  cannot  be  deprived  in  this  world.  ( Again 
raises  the  pistol.)— — But  hold  1  Am  I  not  about 
to  die  from  the  mean  dread  of  living  here  in  ago- 
ny ? — Cowardly  deed  1  Shall  it  be  said,  that  Moor 
was  conquered  by  misfortune  ? — No.  I  will  brave 
the  malice  of  fate.  (  Throws  the  pistol  away.)  My 
pride  shall  triumph  over  every  difficulty.  (The 
darkness  increases  and  a  distant  clock  strikes  twelve.) 

Enter  Herman. 

Her.  Hark!  How  the  nightcrows  shriek ! — The 
village  clock  has  just  struck  twelve.  All  are  asleep 
but  those  who  feel  the  pangs  of  a  bad  conscience, 
and  those  who  brood  revenge.  ( Knocks  at  the  tow- 
er.) Rise,  man  of  misery.  I  have  brought  your 
meal. 

Cha.    {Starts.)  What  means  this  ? 

A  voice  from  the  tower.  Who  knocks  ?  Is  it  you, 
Herman  ?  Is  it  my  raven  ? 

Her.  It  is. — Climb  to  the  grate  and  eat. — 
What  a  dreadful  noise  the  owlets  make!— Old 
man, — you  like  your  food,  I  hope. 

Voice.  It  is  most  welcome,  Herman — I  was 
very  hungry.  Oh  thou,  who  sendest  my  raven, 
accept  my  thanks  for  this  food  in  the  wilderness.— 

Her.    Silence  !  Hark  !— -I  hear  a  noise. — The 


Act  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


S3 


wind  whistles  through  the  chinks  of  the  tower, 
and  makes  my  teeth  chatter. — Hark !  again  I  heard 
a  noise.  I  could  fancy  some  one  was  asleep  and 
snoring. — You  have  company,  old  man  Hush  1 

Voice,    Do  you  see  any  one  ? 

Her.  Farewel  ! — Farewel ! — I  must  be  gone — 
Descend  into  the  dungeon  again.  Your  deliverer 
— your  avenger  is  near.    (Going. J 

Cha.    Hold ! 

Her.    Who's  there  ? 

Cha.  Hold  !  Answer  me.  Who  art  thou  ?  For 
what  purpose  earnest  thou  hither  ?  Speak. 

Her.  {Aside.)  One  of  his  spies,  no  doubt.  It 
matters  not.  Fear  is  become  a  stranger  to  me. 
(Draws  his  sword.)  Villain,  defend  thyself.  Thou 
hast  a  man  before  thee. 

Cha.  ( Strikes  Herman's  sword,  which  jiies  from 
his  grasp.)  I  will  have  an  answer.  Of  what  avail  is 
this  sword-play  ?— -Thou  didst  speak  of  vengeance 
is  my  occupation — mine  alone  of  all  who  dwell 
on  earth. — What  mortal  dares  to  interfere  with 
my  vocation  ? 

Her.  (starts  back.)  By  heaven,  he  was  not 
born  of  woman.  His  blow  was  like  the  stroke  of 
death. 

Voice.    Herman,  to  whom  are  you  speaking  ? 

Cha.  There  is  some  one  in  the  tower.  A  dread- 
ful mystery  lurks  here.  (Rushes  to  the  tower.) 
This  sword  shall  unravel  it. 

Her.  (Approaches,  trembling.)  Terrible  stran- 
ger, art  thou  the  demon  of  this  forest,  or  one  of 
those  dread  spirits,  who  wander  through  the  low- 
er world  observing  every  midnight  a6l  ?  If  the  lat- 
ter, oh  welcome  to  this  dungeon. 

Cha.  Thou  art  right.  I  am  the  angel  of  des- 
olation, but  am,  nevertheless,  flesh  and  blood  like 
thyself.  If  some  prisoner  be  confined  here  by  the 
power  of  man,  I  will  release  him.  Where  is  the 
door  ? 


84, 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IK 


Her.  Belzebub  would  as  easily  burst  open  the 
portal  of  heaven  as  you  this.  The  villain's  cun- 
ning- is  superior  to  a  mortal's  strength. 

Cha.  But  not  superior  to  a  robber's  cunning. 
( Draws  forth  a  bunch  of  keys.)  I  thank  thee,  hea- 
ven, for  having  placed  me  at  the  head  of  robbers. 
These  keys  deride  the  power  of  hell.  ( Opens  the 
door,  Jin  old  man  steps  forth  pale  and  horridly  ema- 
ciated. Charles  starts  back.)  My  father ! 
Dreadful  phantom  ! 

Count.  Oh  God,  accept  my  thanks.  The  hour 
of  deliverance  is  arrived. 

Cha.  Shade  of  the  venerable  Moor,  what  has 
disturbed  thee  in  thy  tomb  ?  Hast  thou  taken  with 
thee  to  the  other  world  some  crime,  which  bars 
thy  passage  through  the  gates  of  Paradise  ?  I  will 
pray,  I  will  order  masses  to  be  read  that  thy  wan- 
dering spirit  may  be  sent  to  its  abode.  Hast  thou 
buried  the  gold  of  widows  and  of  orphans,  and 
art  doomed  to  wander  here  at  midnight  ?  I  will 
tear  the  subterraneous  treasures  from  the  dragons 
which  defend  it,  even  if  they  vomit  the  flames  of 
hell  at  me.  Or  comest  thou  to  reveal  to  me  the 
secrets  of  eternity  ?  Speak,  oh  speak.  My  colour 
will  not  change  with  fear. 

Cou.  I  am  not  a  spirit. — Touch  me  Thou 
perceivest  I  live — and  wretchedly  I  live. 

Cha.    What  1  Wert  thou  not  buried  ? 

Cou.  Alas,  no.  A  dog  was  buried  in  the  vault 
of  my  forefathers,  and  I,  for  three  long  months, 
have  languished  in  this  gloomy  tower,  where  no 
sunbeam  ever  shines,  no  wholesome  breath  of  air 
can  penetrate — where  my  companions  are  the 
croaking  raven  and  the  shrieking  bird  of  night. 

Cha.    Heaven  and  earth  1  Who  did  this  I 

Her.    A  son, 

Cou.    Oh,  do  not,  do  not  curse  him. 
Cha.    A  son  !  {Furiously  rushing  tonvards  Her- 
man.) Liar  !  Villain  ! — A  son  1  Repeat  that  word 


Act  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


B5 


lilid  ten  times  will  I  plunge  my  sword  into  thy 
slanderous  throat.    A  son  ! 

Her.    Yes — if  it  rouse  all  hell — I  say  Am  son. 

Cha.    {As  if  petrified.)  Oh  eternal  chaos  ! 

Con.  If  you  be  a  man,  if  you  possess  a  human 
heart,  listen  to  me,  mighty  and  unknown  deliverer. 
Listen  to  the  sorrows  and  the  sufferings  which  my 
sons  have  heaped  upon  their  father. — For  three 
■  sad  dreary  months  I  have  uttered  my  complaints 
to  these  deaf  walls,  and  none  but  echo  answered 
to  my  groans.  If,  therefore,  you  be  a  man — if 
you  possess  a  human  heart,  oh  listen  to  me. 

Cha.  Wolves  would  be  tame,  when  thus  con- 
jured. 

Cou.    I  lay  upon  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  scarce- 
ly had  regained  a  portion  of  my  former  strength, 
when  a  man  appeared,  who  told  me  that  my  first- 
born sen  had  fallen  in  the  field  of  battle,  and  at 
i  the  hour  of  death  declared  his  father's  curse  had 
i  driven  him  to  despair. 

Her.    It  was  false.     I  was  the  villain,  who 
|  pretended  to  have  witnessed  it.    Bribed  by  the 
gold  and  promises  of  Francis,  I  became  the  mes- 
isenger,  whose  tidings  were  to  hinder  all  enquiries 
after  Charles,  and,  if  possible,  to  end  your  days. 

Cou.  You  1  You  1  Gracious  God  1  I  was  de- 
;  ceived,  then  ? 

Cha.  {Turns  anvay  in  the  greatest  agitation.') 
I How  dreadfully  the  day  begins  to  dawn  ! 

Her.  Tread  on  me — crush  me  like  a  poison- 
[ous  adder — I  consented  to  destroy  you — I  inter- 
cepted all  letters  from  your  Charles — destroyed 
;those  written  to  him  by  yourself,  and  substituted 
others  couched  in  the  language  of  hatred  and  re- 
sentment. Thus  were  you  imposed  upon — thus 
was  your  eldest  son  banished  from  your  heart. 

Cha.  {In  a  tone  of  dreadful  anguish.)  And  hence 
that  son  became  a  robber  and  a  murderer.  {Strikes 
(vol.  ii.)  H 


86 


THE  R0BBLR3. 


Act  XV. 


his  breast  and  forehead.)  Fool  !  Blockhead  !  Dolt! 
— A  villain's  arts  have  made  thee  a  thief  and  an 
incendiary.  {Walks  to  and  fro  ivith  looks  of  horror 
and  distraction.) 

Cou.  Francis  !  Francis  ! — But  I  will  not  curse 
him. — To  be  thus  deceived  1 — Blind  dotard  that  I 
was ! 

Cha.  (Suddenly  stops. )  While  my  father  was 
confined  in  tlds  tower — ( Suppressing  his  emotion.) 
I  have  no  right  to  complain. — (Turns  to  the  Count, 
and  endeavours  to  appear  composed. J  Proceed. 

Con.  When  this  intelligence  was  brought,  I 
swooned.  Doubtless  I  was  supposed  to  be  dead, 
for  when  my  senses  returned,  I  found  myself  up- 
on a  bier,  clad  in  a  shroud.  I  knocked  at  the  top 
of  the  coffin — which  was  opened.  It  was  mid- 
night, and  my  son  Francis  stood  before  me. 
«  What  1"  cried  he,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  "will 
you  live  for  ever  ?"  and  instantly  again  shut  the 
coffin.  These  words  overpowered  me.  When  I 
awoke,  I  felt  the  coffin  raised  and  carried  away. 
At  length  it  was  opened,  and  I  found  myself  at 
the  entrance  of  this  tower.  At  my  side  stood 
Francis  and  the  man,  who  had  brought  me  my 
Charles's  bloody  sword.— I  embraced  my  son's 

knees — prayed — entreated — conjured  him  in 

vain.  His  flinty  heart  was  dead  to  pity.  i"  Down 
with  the  dotard  1  roared  he,  "  I  have  been  plagued 
with  him  too  long'' — upon  which  I  was  cast 
into  the  dungeon,  and  my  son  Francis  locked  the 
door. 

Cha.  It  is  not  possible.  You  must  be  mistaken. 
Cou.  Oh  that  I  were.!  Hear  the  sequel  of  my 
story,  but  be  not  incensed.  Thus  I  lay  full  twenty 
•  hours  in  dreadful  solicitude.  No  mortal  ever  ven- 
tures hither,  for  it  is  universally  believed  that 
the  spirits  of  my  ancestors  wander  at  midnight 
through  these  ruins,  rattling  their  chains,  and 


Jet  IV.  THE    ROBBERS.  87 

I  chaunting  songs  of  death.    At  length  I  again 
f  heard  the  door  open.     This  man  appeared.  He 
;  brought  me  bread  and  water;  told  me  that  I  was 
i  doomed  to  die  by  hunger,  and  added  that  his  life 
|  was  in  danger,  should  it  be  discovered  that  he 
supplied  me  with  food.    Thus  has  my  life  been 
i  preserved,  but  my  remnant  of  strength  was  un- 
able to  oppose  the  chilling  blast — the  fetid  air— ■ 
the  unutterable  anguish  of  my  mind.    A  thousand 
times  have  I  prayed  that  I  might  be  allowed  to 
die  ;  but  doubtless  the  measure  of  my  punishment 
was  not  filled — or  some  happiness  awaits  me  ere 
I  quit  this  world — else,  why  is  my  life  thus  mira- 
culously prolonged  ? — But  it  is  just  that  I  should 
suffer.    My  Charles  I  My  Charles  ! 

Cha.  Enough  !  {To  the  Robbers^)  Rise  !  Ye 
logs — ye  idle,  senseless  lumps  of  clay  !  Rise,  I 
say.  Will  none  of  you  awake  ?  {Fires  a  pistol  over 
them.) 

Rob,  {Starting  from  their  sleep.)  Holla  !  What 
now?  What's  the  matter? 

Cha.  Could  not  this  horrid  story  wake  yon 
from  your  slumbers  ?  Methinks  it  might  have 
roused  the  dead.  Look  here  1  The  laws  of  this 
world  are  become  a  game  at  dice.  The  bands  of 
nature  have  been  rent  asunder.  Discord* is  let 
loose,  and  stalks  triumphant.  A  son  has  slain 
his  father. 

Rob.  What  says  the  captain  ? 
j. 4  Cha.  Slain  !  No.  That  is  too  mild  a  term.  A 
son  has  butchered,  racked,  flead  his  father.  Where 
shall  I  find  words  ?  He  has  committed  a  crime, 
at  which  even  the  cannibal  would  shudder— -a 
Icrime,  of  which  no  devil  would  have  thought.  In 
this  tower  has  a  son  confined  his  own  father.  Oh 

see,  see — he  faints.  In  this  tower — cold — naked  

[hungry — thirsty — oh  see,  see — this  is  the  father 
(—-this  is  my  father. 


8? 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IV. 


Rob.  ( Rush  forward  and  surround  the  old  man.) 
Your  father  !  Your  father  ! 

Scfiiv.  (Approaches  with  reverence^  and  kneels.) 
Father  of  my  captain,  let  me  kiss  thy  feet.  My 
dagger  is  ready  to  avenge  thy  wrongs. 

Cha.  Ay — horribly,  most  horribfy  shalt  thou 
be  avenged,  much  injured  venerable  man.  Thus 
I  destroy  for  ever  the  tie  of  fraternity.  (Tears 
his  coat  from  top  to  bottom.)  Thus,  in  the  face  of 
heaven  I  curse  each  drop  of  blood,  which  flows  in 
the  veins  of  him,  who  was  my  brother.  Hear  me, 
oh  moon  and  stars  !  Hear  me,  ye  spirits  of  the 
night,  who  witnessed  the  abominable  act!  Hear 
me,  terrific  judge,  whose  lightnings  pierce 
through  darkness  to  avenge  the  injured — thus  I 
kneel  before  thee — prostrate  I  raise  my  arm  to- 
wards thy  throne,  and  swear  may  Nature  drive 

me  like  a  hideous  monster  from  her  boundaries, 
ifl  greet  the  light  of  day  until  my  sword  has  drank 
the  heart's  blood  of  this  fell  parricide — until  the 
purple  current  stains  the  earth,  and  spreads  its 
noisome  vapours  through  the  air.    ( Rises. J 

Rob.  Glorious  1  Glorious !  Who  can  call  us 
Villains,  now  ?  By  all  the  fiends  of  hell  we  never 
yet  have  been  so  well  employed. 

Cha.  True — and  by  the  dreadful  groans  of 
those,  whom  we  have  murdered — of  those  who 
were  devoured  by  fire,  or  crushed  beneath  the 
tower  at  Leipzig — no  thought  of  rapine  shall  find 
place  in  our  minds,  till  each  of  us  has  dyed  his 
garment  purple  in  the  blood  of  the  foul  villain. 
\ow  never  dreamt  that  it  would  be  your  lot  to  ex- 
ecute the  great  decrees  of  heaven.  The  clue  of 
destiny,  so  long  confused,  is  now  unravelled. 
This  day  does  an  invisible  power  dignify  our  oc- 
cupation. Offer  up  your  prayers  and  thanks  to 
Him,  who  lias  exalted  you  to  this  honourable 
rank  ;  who  has  deigned  to  appoint  you  the  dread- 


Act  IV. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


89 


Ful  agents  of  his  dark  decrees.  Bare  your  heads 
i — prostrate  yourselves  in  the  dust — and  rise  hal- 
lowed men.    (They  kneel.) 

Schw.  Now,  Captain,  issue  your  commands. 
We  are  ready. 

Cha.  Rise,  Schweitzer,  and  touch  these  sa- 
cred locks.  C Leads  him  to  the  Count,  and  places 
a  lock  of  hair  in  his  hand.  J  You  recollect,  that 
once,  when  overpowered  and  breathless,  I  had 
sunk  updn  my  knee,  you  cleft  the  skull  of  a  Bo- 
hemian, who  had  already  raised  his  sword  to  slay 
me.  At  that  time  I  promised  you  a  royal  recom- 
pence,  but  have  never  been  able  to  discharge  the 
obligation. 

Schw.  You  made  this  promise,  I  allow,  but 
let  me  for  ever  be  your  creditor. 

Cha.  No,  Schweitzer— -to-day  I  have  it  in  my 
power  to  pay  the  debt.  No  mortal  ever  was  so 
Jiighly  honoured.  I  appoint  thee  the  avenger  of 
my  father's  wrongs. 

Schw.  C Rises.)  Great  captain,  you  have  to- 
day made  me  for  the  first  time  proud.  Command 
me.  How,  where,  and  when  shall  I  make  the 
attack  ? 

Cha.  The  moments  are  precious.  You  must 
(  depart  instantly.  Select  from  the  band  as  many 
as  you  please,  and  proceed  to  the  villain's  castle. 
Drag  him  from  his  bed,  though  he  be  asleep,  or 
in  the  arms  of  a  wanton.  Seize  him  at  the  ban- 
quet— tear  him  from  the  crucifix.  But  mark  my 
words,  and  let  them  not  escape  your  memory  at 
the  decisive  moment.  He  must  be  delivered  to 
me  alive.  Should  any  one  attempt  to  wound  him, 
or  to  hurt  a  hair  of  his^head,  that  man  shall  pe- 
rish by  this  arm.  I'll  tear  him  piecemeal,  and 
feed  the  hungry  vultures  with  his  carcase.  I  must 
have  him  whole  and  uninjured.  If  you  bring  him 
thus,  your  recompence  shall  be  a  million.  I'll 
H  2 


90 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  IV. 


plunder  some  monarch,  at  the  peril  of  my  life,  in 
order  to  obtain  it.  If  you  have  understood  me,  go. 

Schiu,  Enough,  Captain  1  There  is  my  hand. 
You  shall  see  both  of  us  or  neither.  Follow  me, 
comrades. 

(Exeunt  Schweitzer,  Herman  and  several  Robbers, 
Cha.    ( To  the  rest.)    Disperse  yourselves  ia 
the  forest.    I  shall  stay  here. 


EKD  OF   THE   FOURTH  ACT. 


ict  V. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


91 


a  c  r  v. 

jcene— A  gallery  in  which  are  seen  doors  to  vari- 
ous apartments.  Francis  rushes  from  one  of  them. 

Fra.    Betrayed  !  Betrayed  !  A  thousand  spirits 
lave  started  from  their  graves.   All  the  empire  of 
leath  is  in  motion,  and  on  every  side  my  ear  is 
ortured  with  the  name  of  murderer.    Ha  !  Who 
moves  there  ? 

Enter  Daniel. 

Dan.  Heaven  have  mercy  on  us  !  Is  it  you, 
my  Lord,  whose  shrieks  echo  through  the  gallery, 
and  rouse  all  who  sleep  ? 

Fra.  Sleep  !  Who  permitted  you  to  sleep  ? 
iLet  every  one  instantly  arise — let  every  one  clothe 
himself  in  armour,  and  load  his  musket. — Didst 
thou  not  see  them  flit  along  the  corridors  ? 

Dan.    Whom,  my  Lord  ? 

Fra  Whom  1  blockhead  !  whom  !  Canst  thou 
thus  coldly  ask  me  whom  ?— Oh,  the  sight  thril- 
led through  my  very  marrow.  Spirits  of  the  damn- 
ed ! — What  is  the  hour  of  night  ? 

Dan.    The  watchman  has  just  called  two. 

Fra.  Two  !  Will  this  night,  then,  extend  to  the 
day  of  judgment.  Did  you  hear  no  noise  in  the 
neighbourhood — no  shout  of  triumph — no  gallop- 
ing of  horses  ?  Where  is  Charles — the  Count  1 
mean  ? 

Dan.    I  do  not  know,  my  Lord. 

Fra.  Not  know  1  Thou  art  in  the  plot,  then. 
I'll  tear  thy  entrails  piecemeal,  villain.  What  1 
have  my  dependents  too* — have  even  beggars  con- 
spired against  me  ?  Heaven— hell — every  thing 
conspires  against  me. 

Dan.    Count  Moor! 


92 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Jet  V. 


Fra.  No  I  will  not  tremble.  It  was  but  a 
dream.  The  dead  cannot  awake  from  their  eter- 
nal sleep.  Who  says  that  I  tremble  and  am  pale  ? 
— «I  feel  easy  and  well. 

Dan.  You  are  pale  as  death — your  voice  faul- 
ters,  my  lord. 

Fra.  Yes — I  am  somewhat  feverise — my  sur- 
geon shall  bleed  me  in  the  morning. 

Dan.    Oh,'  you  are  very  ill — 

Fra.  True — I  am  ill. — My  disorder  affects  my 
brain,  and  is  the  cause  of  these  terrific  dreams ; 
but  dreams  mean  nothing,  Daniel,  dreams  mean 
nothing. — I  had  a  merry  dream  just  now.  (Faints.) 

Dan.  Gracious  God?  What  can  this  mean? 
George  !  Conrad  !  Bastion  !  Martin  !  Rouse  your- 
self, my  lord.  (Shakes  him.)  I  shall  be  suspected 
of  having  murdered  him.  God  have  mercy  on  me ! 

Fra.  Away  ?  away  !  Why  dost  thou  shake  me 
thus  vile  ghastly  spectre  ?— The  dead  cannot 
awake  from — 

Dan.  Merciful  heaven  I  He  knows  not  what 
he  says. 

Fra.  (Raises  himselj  slowly.).  Where  am  I  ? 
You  here,  Daniel !  What  did  I  say,  just  now  ?— 
Pay  no  regard  to  it — for  it  was  faise,  be  it  what 
it  might. — Come  hither.  Raise  me.  It  was  only 
a  kind  of  fit,  in  consequence  of  wanting  resU 

Dan.    I'll  call  your  surgeon,  my  lord. 

Fra.  Hold  1  Seat  yourself  at  my  side,  upon 
this  sofa. — You  are  a  sensible,  a  worthy  man. 
Listen  to  me. 

Dan.  Another  time,  my  lord.  Let  me  lead 
you  to  bed.    Repose  is  necessary. 

Fra.  No.  Listen  to  me,  Daniel,  and  laugh  at 
me.  Methought  I  had  be*en  feasting  at  a  splen- 
did  banquet.  My  heart  was  elated,  and  1  lay 
stretched  on  the  platform,  with  sensation  the  most 
pleasing,  when  suddenly — suddenly — but  laugh 
at  me,  I  charge  you. 


Act  v. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Dan.    Proceed,  my  lord. 

Fra.  Suddenly  my  ear  was  assailed  by  a  tre- 
mendous peal  of  thunder.  I  started  up,  and  s.i\r 
the  whole  horizon  wrapped  in  flames.  Mountains, 
cities,  and  forests,  melted  like  wax  in  a  furnace, 
while  a  terrific  hurricane  swept  before  it  the  ocean, 
:  the  heavens,  and  the  earth. 

Dan.  Horrible  !  It  is  the  description  of  the 
last  day. 

Fra.  Pshaw  !  nonsense  ! — Then  a  person  stept 
;  forth  with  scales  in  his  hand,  which  he  held  be- 
Itween  east  and  west,  and  said:  "Approach,  ye 
I  children  of  dust.    I  weigh  the  thoughts  of  man." 

Dan.    God  have  mercy  on  me  ! 

Fra.  All  turned  pale.  Fearful  expectation 
beat  in  every  breast. — My  name  was  first  heard. 
The  sound  issued  from  the  bowels  of  the  moun- 
tain. My  blood  congealed  with  terror — my  teeth 
chattered — -my  knees  smote  each  other. 

Dan.    Oh  !  God  forgive  you  ! 

Fra,  That  did  he  not.  An  old  man  appeared, 
pale — emaciated — bent  towards  the  earth,  by  sor- 
rows and  distress.  Raging  hunger  had  compel- 
led him  to  eat  his  own  arm.  At  his  approach  all 
shuddered,  and  turned  away.  I  knew  the  man. 
He  cut  a  lock  from  his  hoary  head,  and  threw  it 
towards  me.  Instantly  a  voice  thundered  through 
the  smoke  :  "  Mercy,  mercy  to  all  sinners  upon 
earth.  Thou  alone  art  rejected." — (A  long  pause.) 
Now,  why  do  you  not  laugh  ? 

Dan.  Can  I  be  expected  to  laugh,  when  my 
flesh  creeps  ?  Dreams  are  sent  by  heaven. 

Fra.  Pshaw,  pshaw  !  Talk  not  thus.  Call  me 
a  fool,  a  blockhead — call  me  any  thing,  clear  Dan- 
iel—laugh at  me —  I  beseech  you  laugh  at  me. 

Dan.  Dreams  are  sent  by  heaven.  1  will 
pray  for  you.  (Exit, 

Fra.  Mean,  vulgar  prejudice  and  superstition  ! 


94  THE   ROBBERS.  Act  W 

— It  has  never  yet  been  proved  that  any  eye,  above 
this  earth,  observes  what  passes  on  it.  What 
makes  me  just  now  think  of  this  subject  ? — Is 
there  an  avenging  judge  above  the  stars  ?  Alas,  I 
fear  there  is.  Dreadful,  horrible  idea  I — To  ap- 
pear this  very  night  before  the  avenging  judge- 
No,  no,  no. — 3oiitu.de  and  silence  reign  beyond 
this  world.-    It  must  not,  shall  not,  be  otherwise. 

—•Yet  should  it,  notwithstanding.  Why  do 

I  tremble  thus  ? — To  die  J — Why  am  I  alarmed 

at  this  idea?  Oh  should  I  be  obliged  to  give 

account  of  all  my  actions  and  should  my  judge 
be  just  

Enter  a  Servant,  hastily. 

Ser.  My  lord,  Amelia  has  escaped,  and  the 
count  has  suddenly  disappeared. 

Enter  Daniel,  much  alarmed. 

Dan.  Count  Moor,  a  troop  of  horsemen  has 
this  instant  galloped  into  the  court.  The  whole 
village  is  in  motion. 

Era.  Ring  the  alarm-bell.  Let  every  one  hasten 
to  the  chapel,  and  pray  for  me.  I  will  release  all 
the  prisoners.  Threefold  I  will  repay  what  I  have 
taken  from  the  helpless.  Go — call  my  confessor, 
that  he  may  give  me  absolution. — Go,  I  say.  {The 
tumult  becomes  more  audible.') 

Dan.  God  forgive  me  my  sins  !  May  I  believe 
what  I  hear  ?  You  who  always  ridiculed  religion. 

Era.    No  more. — Death,  Daniel,  death  It 

is  too  late.  (Schweitzer  is  heard  without.)  Pray 
for  me  1  Oh  pray  for  me. 

Dan.  Yes,  I  always  told  you  that  when  the  fa- 
tal day  arrived— 

Schvj.  [Without,)  Down  with  them  1  Burst  the 
gates  open.    I  see  a  light.    He  must  be  there. 

Era.  {Kneels.)  Hear  my  prayer,  Almighty- 
God.  It  is  the  first  I  ever  uttered.  Hear  me 
Almighty  God  I 


Act  V. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


05 


Schw.  {Still  in  the  court.)  Drive  them  back, 
jcomrades.  Back,  you  damned  clogs.  I  am  the 
■devil,  and  am  come  for  your  master.  Where  is 
,the  black  fellow  and  his  troop  ?  Grimm,  station 
lyour  men  at  distances  from  each  other  round  the 
castle.  Storm  the  ramparts  to  the  east, 
i  Gri.  Hurl  the  fire-brands.  The  scoundrel  will 
appear  when  he  smells  the  flames. 

Fra.  {Prays.)  Oh  Lord  God  1  I  have  not  been 
a  common  murderer — I  have  not  been  guilty  of 
[any  trifling  crimes. 

Dan.  God  have  mercy  on  us  !  Even  his  prayers 
are  crimes.  ( Firebrands  and  stones  are  jhroiun  *n- 
to  the  castle. J 

Fra.  I  cannot  pray. — Here — here — (Striking 
his  breast  and  forehead.  J  all  is  so  dreary.  (  Rises.) 
>;o. — I  will  not  pray. 

Dan.  Jesus  Maria  1  Help!  Kelp  i  The  whole 
castle  is  in  flames. 

Fra.  Daniel — obey  me — take  this  sword,  and 
Iplunge  it  to  my  heart,  that  I  may  not  be  made 
|the  sport  of  these  vile  rascals.  (  The  fire  spreads 
on  all  sides.) 

Dan.  Heaven  forbid  !  I  should  not  like  to  send 
(any  one  too  soon  to  heaven — far  less  to — 

(  Runs  out. 

Fra.  (After  a  pause  during  'which  he  has  follow- 
ed Daniel  with  a  look  of  horror  and  despa'r.)  To 
Hell,  thou  wouldst  have  said — and  rightly  wouldst 
have  said — Is  this  the  triumphant  tumult  of  the 
demons  who  await  me  ? — Hark  1 — They  approach 

— they  have  entered  the  castle.  Why  does  this 

jmurderous  weapon  make  me  tremble  ? — Ha  !  The 
gates  are  broken. — Escape  is  impossible.  Wel- 
come, Hell.    ( Springs  into  the  fames.) 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  V. 


Scene—  The  forest  and  tower  as  at  the  end  of  the 
fourth  act.     The  Count  is  discovered  sitting  up- 
on a  stone.    Charles  stands  near  him.  Several 
Robbers  are  seen  at  a  distance  in  the  Forest. 
Cha.    And  you  loved  this  other  son  ? 
Con.    Heaven  knows  how  sincerely.    Oh,  why 
did  I  listen  to  the  falshoods  of  that  monster  Fran- 
cis: I  wasonce  an  enviable  parent — blessed  with 
most  hopeful  children — but  oh,  in  an  unlucky 
hour,,  that  demon  Envy  entered  into  the  breast 
of  my  younger  son.  I  listened  to  the  serpent,  and 
lost  both  my  children.    ( Hides  his  face — Charles 
walks  from  him.) — Deeply  do  I  feel  the  truth  of 
thy  words,  dear  Amelia.    The  spirit  of  vengeance 
spoke  from  thy  lips.    Alas,  yes.    In  vain  do  I 
stretch  forth  my  arms  to  embrace  my  son.  In 
vain  do  I  wish  to  grasp  the  warm  hand  of  my 
Charles.    (Charles  presents  his  hand,  with  averted 
countenance.  J  Oh  that  this  were  his  hand  !  But  he 
is  dead — buried  far  from  his  native  home — he  can 
never  hear  his  father's  lamentations. — Wretch 
that  I  am  1 — I  have  no  son  to  close  my  eyes.  I 
must  die  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger. 

Cha.  ( In  most  violent  agitation.)  It  must  be 
so.  The  decisive  moment  is  arrived.  {To  the 
Robbers.)  Leave  me. — and  yet — can  I  restore  to 
him  his  son  ? — Alas,  no. 

Cou.  Why  do  you  mutter  thus,  my  generous 
friend  ? 

Cha.  Your  son — yes,  old  man— your  son  is— 
lost  for  ever. 

Cou.    True,  true. 

Cha.  ( Raising  his  eyes  towards  heaven.)  Sup* 
port  my  sinking  soul. — Grant  me  but  fortitude  to 
bear  this  trial. — ( Aloud. )  Yes,  your  son  is  lost 
for  ever. 

Cou.  Stranger,  stranger,  did  you  release  me 
from  the  tower  only  to  remind  me  of  my  sorrows? 


Act  V. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


97 


Cha.    ( Aside.)    How,  if  I  were  to  snatch  his 
blessing— to  steal  it,  like  a  thief,  and  escape  with 
the  precious  prize.     (Sinks  on  his  knee  at  the  feet 
of  the  Count.)    'Twas  I,  who  liberated  thee,  ve 
nerable  man,  I  crave  thy  blessing. 

Con.  ( Presses  him  to  his  heart.)  Think  that 
a  father  blesses  thee — and  I  will  think  I  bless  my 
Charles. — Thou,  too,  canst  weep,  I  see. 

Cha.  (In  great  emotion.)  Yes,  I  will  think  it 
is  a  father's  blessing.  ( Hangs  on  the  Count's  neck, 
A  pause  ensues.  At  length  a  confused  noise  is  heard, 
and  torches  are  seen  at  a  distance.  Charles  starts 
from  the  Count's  arms.)  Hark  !  Vengeance  calls 
to  me.  They  come.  ( Gazes  awhile  at  the  old 
man — then  looks  towards  the  approaching  Robbers 
with  grim  ferocity.)  Inflame  me,  suffering  lamb, 
with  the  murderous  fury  of  the  tiger.  I  will  of- 
fer a  sacrifice  to  thee,  which  shall  make  the  stars 
grow  dim,  and  petrify  all  animated  nature.  (The 
torches  become  more  visible — the  noise  more  audible. 
Several  pistols  are  fred.) 

Cou.  Merciful  heaven  !  What  means  this  dread- 
ful noise  ?  Are  my  son's  creatures  coming  to  drag 
me  to  the  scaffold  ? 

Cha.  (Folding  his  hands  with  fervour.)  Listen, 
oh  heavenly  Judge,  listen  to  the  prayer  of  an  as- 
Isassin.  Make  this  wretch  immortal.  Let  not 
the  first  stroke  of  this  sword  destroy  him.  No. 
Let  me  enjoy  his  lengthened  agonies.  Let  me 
feast  on  the  convulsions  of  his  tortured  frame. 

Cou.    What  are  you  muttering,  stranger  ? 

Cha.  I  am  praying.  (The  wild  noise  of  the  ap- 
proaching Robbers  is  heard.) 

Cou.    Oh  think  of  Francis  in  your  prayers. 

Cha.    (Suppressing  his  fury.)  Be  assured  I  do. 

Cou.  But  is  that  the  tone  of  supplication  ? 
Cease,  cease.    I  shudder  at  such  prayers. 

(VOL.  II.)  I 


OS  THE    ROBBERS.  Act 

Enter  Schweitzer,  and  other  Robbers,  conduc 
ing  Francis,  who  is  in  irons. 

Schw.    Triumph,  Captain  I  I  have  fulfilled 
vow. — Here  is  the  villain. 

Gri.    We  snatched  him  from  the  flames. 

Kos.    And  reduced  his  castle  to  ashes. 

Cha.    (sifter  a  dreadful  pause,  approaches  Fran'i 
cis.)  Dost  thou  know  me  ?  Francis  rivets  his  eycM 
on  the  earth,  and  returns  no  answer.    Charles  leads 
him  to  the  Count.)    Dost  thou  know  this  man? 

Fra.  ( Starts  back,  with  a  look  of  horror.  J  Light- 
nings blast  me  !  'Tis  my  father. 

Cou.  (Turns  away.)  Go. — God  forgive  thee  1  I 
will  forget  all. 

Cha.  (With  terrific  sternness.)  And  may  my 
curse  hang  to  that  prayer  like  tons  of  lead,  that 
it  may  never  reach  the  ear  of  Mercy. — Dost  thou 
know  this  tower,  too  ? 

Fra.  (With  violence  to  Herman. )  Monster! 
Has  thy  hatred  to  our  race  pursued  my  father 
even  to  this  tower. 

Her.  Bravo  1  Bravo  1  The  devil  is  not  so  wick- 
ed as  to  let  his  friends  perish  for  want  of  a  lie.  -.- 

Cha.  Enough  1  Conduct  this  old  man  further 
into  the  forest.  That  which  must  now  be  done, 
shall  not  be  interrupted  by  a  father's  tears.  (Count 
is  led  away,)  Come  nearer,  ye  banditti.  (They\ 
form  a  semicircle  round  Charles  and  Francis,  and 
lean  upon  their  muskets.  J  Now — not  another  word. 
As  I  hope  for  mercy,  the  man  who  dares  to  move! 
his  tongue  till  I  command  it,  dies  on  the  spot.— 
Silence. 

Fra.  (Transported  with  fury,  rushes  towards 
Herman.  )  Villain,  villain  1  Oh  that  I  could  spit 
a  flood  of  poison  on  thee  1     ( Bites  his  chains.) 

Cha.  (With  dignified  majesty.)  I  stand  here, 
appointed  by  the  Eternal  Judge,  to  execute  his 


Act  V. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


99 


office  upon  earth.  The  sentence  I  shall  pass  is 
such  as  all  creation  will  approve.  The  tribunal 
is  formed  of  villains,  and  I,  the  greatest,  am  its 
head.  ,Let  your  daggers  speak  your  sentiments. 
Let  every  one  compare  his  actions  with  those  of 
this  wretch,  and  if,  then,  there  be  among  you 
one  who  does  not  feel  himself  a  saint,  let  him 
withdraw  and  break  his  dagger.  ( All  the  Robbers 
mrow  down  their  daggers  unbroken.  Charles  turns 
to  Francis.)  Non  thou  mayst  be  proud,  for  to-day 
thou  hast  converted  sinners  into  angels. — One 
dagger  still  is  wanted.  (Draws  forth  his  own.) 
His  mother  was  also  mine.  (To  Kosinski  and 
Schweitzer.)  Be  you  his  judges.  ( Breaks  his 
dagger,  and  walks  aside  in  great  emotion.  J 

Schw.  ( after  a  pause.  J  1  feel  a  very  school-boy, 
and  rack  my  mind  in  vain.  Numerous  as  are  the 
enjoyments  of  'life,  the  torments  of  death  seem 
to  be  few.  (Stamping  with  violence.)  Kosinski, 
speak.  I  can  devise  no  torture,  which  I  think 
sufficient. 

Kos.  Shame  on  you,  grey-beard  !  Cast  a  glance 
at  the  tower — let  that  inspire  you.  I  am  but  a 
scholar. — Don't  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  my 
tutor. 

Schw.  I  am  grown  grey  amidst  scenes  of  hor- 
ror, but,  at  present,  I  feel  a  beggar  in  ideas.  I 
i  thank  you,  comrade.  Was  not  this  tower  the 
place  in  which  he  exercised  his  cruelties  ?  Do  we 
not  stand  as  judges  before  this  tower  ?  Down 
with  him  !  There  let  him  die  and  rot. 

Rob.  (With  shouts  of  joy.)  Right  !  Right  ! 
Down  with  him  into  the  dungeon  ! 

Fra.  ( Rushes  into  his  brother's  arms.)  Save  me 
from  the  claws  of  these  assassins.  Save  me,  bro- 
ther. 

Cha.  {With  stem  solemnity.)  Thou  didst  make 
me  their  leader.  (Francis  starts  back  alarmed.) 
Canst  thou  still  ask  me  to  save  thee  I 


ICO 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  V, 


Rob.  (With  increasing  eagerness*)  Down  with 
him  !  To  the  dungeon  with  him  ! 

Cha.  ( Approaches  him  ivith  a  dignified  mei?if 
and  a  look  of  sorrow.)  Son  of  my  father,  thou  hast 
robbed  me  of  celestial  happiness.  Be  that  crime 
pardoned.  The  tortures  of  hell  await  thee  as  a 
son — as  a  brother  /  forgive  thee.  ( Embraces  him, 
and  hastens  away.  The  Robbers,  with  frantic 
shouts  of  delight,  plunge  Francis  into  the  dungeon, 
Charles  returns.)  It  is  accomplished.  Accept 
my  thanks,  Almighty  Ruler  of  the  world.  The 
dreadful  deed  is  done,  {A  pause  ensues,  during 
which  he  appears  to  be  meditating  some  great  design.) 
Should  Providence  have  decreed,  after  so  far  lead- 
ing me  upon  the  path  of  blood,  that  this  tower 
shall  be  the  goal  of  my  career,  i  bend  to  his  de- 
cree and  willingly  obey. — I  rely  upon  the  mercy 
of  my  God,  and  rejoice  that  my  work  is  at  an 
end.  How  gloriously  the  hero  dies,  whom  victo- 
ry has  crowned.  This  was  the  greatest  action  of 
my  life—'tis  right  that  it  should  be  the  last. 
Amidst  the  gloom  of  night  I  will  expire.  Con- 
duct my  father  hither.  ( Exeunt  Robbers. 

Re-enter  Count  and  Robbers. 

Cou.    Whither  will  you  lead  me  ?  Where  is 

my  son  ? 

Cha.  {Meets  him  with  dignified  composure.)  Each 
planet  and  each  grain  of  sand  has  its  appointed 
place  in  the  creation — your  son,  too,  has  his. 
Compose  yourself,  and  be  seated. 

Cou.  {Bursts  into  tears.)  No  longer  a  son—- no 
longer  a  son  in  the  world. 

Cha,    Compose  yourself,  and  he  steated. 

Cou.  Oh  ye  compassionate  barbarians  !  You 
drag  a  dying  father  from  his  dungeon,  that  you 
may  tell  him  he  is  childless.  Let  your  compas- 
sion do  still  more  1  Replace  me  where  I  was, 
I  beseech  you. 


Act  V. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


101 


Cha.  (Grasps  his  haryd  with  fervour and  raises 
it  towards  heaven.)  Blaspheme  not,  old  man.  Ac- 
cuse not  that  Being,  whom  I  to-day  have  wor- 
shipped with  sincerity.  Men,  more  wicked  far 
than  you,  have  this  day  been  allowed  to  approach 
the  throne  of  God. 

Cou.    Murderers  approach  the  throne  of  God  ! 

Cha.  (Incensed.)  Not  another  word,  I  do  com- 
mand thee.  (In  a  milder  tone.)  If  even  sinners 
feel  the  influence  of  heavenly  Kindness,  shall 
saints  despair  of  feeling  it  ?  Where  could  you 
find  words  to  atone  for  such  a  sin,  were  God  this 
day  to  baptize  for  you  a  son. 

Cou.  (With  asperity.)  Are  sons  to-day  baptiz- 
ed with  blood  ? 

Cha.  Yes.  Providence  can  baptize  Avith  blood, 
and  does  so  to-day.  The  ways  of  heaven  are 
dreadful  and  mysterious — but  tears  of  joy  await 
us,  when  we  have  reached  the  point  of  destination. 

Cou.    Where  shall  I  shed  them  ? 

Cha.  (Rushes  into  his  arms.)  On  the  breast  of 
Charles. 

Cou.  (With  a  shout  of  transport.)  My  Charles 
alive  ? 

Cha.  He  is  alive — and  has  been  sent  hither  to 
release  and  to  avenge  you.  This  (Pointing  to 
the  tower)  was  the  reward  bestowed  upon  you  by 
the  favoured  son — this  (Pressing  him  to  his  heart) 
is  the  vengeance  of  the  son  whom  you  abandoned. 

Rob.  There  are  people  in  the  forest.  We  hear 
voices. 

Cha.  Call  the  rest.  (Exeunt  Robbers.)  I  must 
be  resolute,  and  dash  the  cup  of  joy  from  my  lips 
ere  it  be  converted  into  poison. 

Cou.  Are  these  men  your  Iriends  ?  I  almost 
fear  their  looks. 

Cha.  I  will  answer  any  question  but  this,  my 
father.    Do  not  ask  this. 

i  2 


THE  ROBDERS. 


Jet 


Enter  Amelia,  with  dishevelled  hair,  followed  by 
the  Robbers. 

Ame.  They  say  his  voice  has  raised  the  dead — 
they  say  mv  uncle  is  alive. — Charles  I  Uncle  I 
Where  shall  I  find  them  ? 

Cha.  (Shuddering. )  What  demon  brings  that 
image  to  my  view  ? 

Cou.    (Raises  himself.)    Amelia!  my  niece  ! 

Ame.  ( Ruslies  into  his  arms.)  Do  I  again 
behold  you  dearest  uncle— and  my  Charles  too  ? 

Cou,    Yes.    Charles  is  alive — You — I — all. 

Cha.  (In  a  phrenzy  to  the  band.)  Away  com- 
rades.   The  archfiend  has  betrayed  me. 

Ame.  (Releases  herself  from  the  Count's  em- 
brace, and  clasps  Charles  in  her  arms.)  I  have  him 
again  1  Angels  of  bliss  !  I  have  him  again  ! 

Cha.  Tear  her  from  my  neck.  Murder  her— > 
murder  him — me — every  one.  Let  all  the  world 
perish. 

Ame.  Dearest  Charles  ! — The  transport  over- 
powers him.  Why  am  I  thus  cool  ?  Am  I  not  as 
happy  as  himself? 

Cou.  Come,  children.  Your  hand,  Charles—- 
and  your's  Amelia.  Oh,  I  little  thought  that  so 
much  bliss  awaited  me.    I  will  unite  you  for  ever. 

Ame.  Oh  ecstasy  indescribable  !  Mine,  mine 
for  ever !  Ye  powers  of  heaven,  release  me  from 
this  load  of  bliss,  lest  I  should  sink  beneath  the 
weight  of  it. 

Cha.  (Who  has  torn  himself  from  her  arms.) 
Away  !  away  !  Most  unfortunate  of  brides  !  Look 

at  these  men — ask  them — listen  to  them  Most 

unfortunate  of  fathers  !  Let  me  fly  far  away,  and 
hide  myself  for  ever. 

Ame.  Fly  !  Whither  !  Why  ?  A  life  of  ecstasy 
awaits  you  and  you  wish  to  fly  ? 

Cou.  Can  my  sou  wish  to  fly — my  son — Ame- 
lia's husband? 


£gt  f,  THE    ROBBERS.  103 

Cha.    Too  late  1 — In  vain  ! — Curst;  1112,  my  fa* 

ther.  Ask  me  no  more  questions. — Die,  Amelia 

 die  my  father — rescued  by  me,  to  be  by  me 

destroyed.  These  thy  deliverers  are  robbers  and 
assassins.    Thy  son  is — their  captain. 

Cou.  God  of  heaven  I  My  children!  (Falls, 
land  instantly  expires,  Amelia  stands  rooted  to  the 
\spot,  and  all  the  Robbers  preserve  a  dreadful  si- 
lence. ) 

Cha.  The  souls  of  those  whom  I  murdered 
amidst  the  enjoyments  of  love — of  those  whom  I 

strangled  in  their  sleep — of  those  Ha  1  ha  ! 

ha  !  Do  you  hear  the  powder-magazine  ? — Do  you 
j  observe  that  roof  falling  upon  the  helpless  woman, 
who  is  in  childbed?  Do  you  see  those  flames  creep* 
j  ing  round  the  cradle  of  the  infant  ?  That  is  the 
1  hymeneal  torch.    Hear  you  those  shrieks  ?  That 
is  the  bridal  music.    Oh,  he  does  not  forget — he 

I  claims  his  due  therefore  away  from  me,  all 

joys  of  love.  This  is  retaliation. 

Ame.  ( Awaking  from  her  reverie.  )  What  have 
I  done,  father  of  all,  what  have  I  done  ? 

Cha.  This  is  more  than  man  can  bear.  I  who 
have  seen  death  in  its  every  shape,  and  never  was 
appalled — shall  I  now  be  taught  to  tremble  by  a 
woman  ? — No.  It  shall  not  be.  I  will  drink  blood, 
and  bid  defiance  to  the  tyrant  Fate.  (Going.) 

Ame.  (  Throws  herself  into  his  arms. )  Murder- 
er !  Demon  I  I  cannot  lose  thee,  angel. 

Cha.     (Stops  with  an  astonished  air.)    Am  I 
awake  ? — Am  I  mad  ? — Has  hell  devised  some  new 
method  of  tormenting  me  ?  She  hangs  upon  the 
neck  of  an  assassin. 
Ame.    For  ever. 

Cha.  She  still  loves  me — loves  me  with  all  my 
crimes.  Then  am  I  pure  as  is  the  light  of  day. 
A  child  of  light  weeps  upon  the  neck  of  a  pardon- 
ed demon.    The  Furies  can  no  longer  lash  me 


101. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


Act  V. 


with  their  serpents — the  power  of  hell  is  annihi- 
lated— I  am  happy.    ( Hicks  his  face  in  her  bosom,) 

Gri.  ( Approaches  with  a  furious  look,)  Hold, 
traitor.  Instantly  quit  her  embrace,  or  I  will 
speak  a  word  that  shall  convulse  thy  frame. 

Schw,  ( Places  his  sword  between  Charles  and 
Amelia.)  Remember  the  forest  of  Bohemia.  Trai- 
tor? Where  are  now  your  vows?  Have  you  forgotten 
that  in  your  defence  we  risked  our  lives — our 
honour — every  thing?  Did  any  one  of  us  escape 
without  wounds?  Did  we  not  stand  like  rocks? 
And  did  not  you  raise  your  arm,  and  swear  never 
to  forsake  us,  as  we  had  not  forsaken  you  ?  Trai- 
tor !  Can  a  woman  make  you  false  to  your  oath? 

Rob,  (Tear  open  their  cloaths,)  Look  here — I 
and  here — and  here.  Do  you  know  these  scars  ? 
We  bought  you  with  our  heart's  blood.  OurV 
you  are,  and  shall  remain,  though  angels  try  tq 
tear  you  from  us.  Come  with  us.  A  victim  for  a 
viclim  I  A  woman  for  the  band  ! 

Cha.  Be  it  so.  I  wished  to  return  to  virtue, 
but  He,  who  reigns  in  heaven,  forbids  it.  Roll 
not  your  eyes  thus  wildly,  dear  Amelia.  God  has 
millions  of  beings  created  by  himself,  and  wants 
not  me.  He  can  easily  spare  one — that  one  am  I. 
(Turns  to  the  band.) 

Ame.  ( Holds  him  back,)  Stay,  1  beseech  you. 
A  single  blow — strike  but  a  single  blow.  Draw 
your  sword,  and  be  compassionate. 

Cha,  Compassion  dwells  among  the  beasts  of 
the  forest.    I  will  not  murder  thee. 

Ame,  (Embracing  his  knees,)  Oh,  for  heaven's 
sake — for  mercy's  sake — I  ask  you  not,  for  affec- 
tion— but  for  death.  See,  my  hand  trembles.  I 
have  not  courage  to  guide  the  fatal  weapon.  For 
you  it  is  easy — for  you  are  accustomed  to  it. 
Plunge  your  sword  into  my  heart — and  I  shall  be 
happy. 


Act  V. 


THE  ROBBERS. 


105 


!  Cha.  (With  great  sternness.)  And  why  must 
!you  alone  be  happy  ? — Begone  :  Moor  cannot  slay 
a  woman. 

Ame.  Inhuman  wretch I  You  pass  by  those 
Jvvho  are  weary  of  existence,  and  murder  none  but 
the  happy.  {To  the  Robbers,  in  a  tone  of  suppli- 
cation.) Have  compassion  on  me,  men  of  blood. 
There  is  a  ferocious  scowl  upon  your  foreheads, 
which  to  the  wretched  is  consoling.  Fire  at  me. 
i  Your  leader  is  a  boaster  and  a  coward.  {Some  of 
Ithe  Robbers  take  aim  at  her.) 

Cha.  {Enraged.)  Away,  ye  demons  !  ( Walks 
forward  with  a  majestic  mien,)  Who  dares  to  break 
iinto  my  sanctuary  ?  She  is  mine.  ( Draws  her  to 
him,  and  puts  his  arm  round  her  waist.)  Now  let 
heaven  and  hell  attempt  to  part  us.  Love  scorns 
the  power  of  oaths.  ( Raises  her  into  the  air,  and 
with  dauntless  look  holds  her  before  the  band.)  Who 
will  dare  to  separate  what  nature  has  united  ? 
"  Rob.     ( Again  taking  aim.)     We  will. 

Cha.  (With  a  smile  of  contempt.)  Impotent 
reptiles  !  ( Places  Amelia  upon  a  stone — she  is  al- 
most  bereft  of  every  faculty.)  Look  up,  my  bride. 
No  priestly  blessing  will  unite  us,  but  I  know 
something  better.  {Removes  the  handkerchief  from 
Amelia's  neck,  and  exposes  her  bosom  to  the  Rob- 
bers.J  Look  at  these  heavenly  charms.  (With 
mournful  tenderness )  Do  they  not  even  melt  the 
hearts  of  murderers  ?  ( After  a  pause,  in  a  milder 
tone.)  Look  at  me,  murderers. — I  am  young.— 
I  love  and  am  beloved — I  adore  and  am  adored. 
I  have  reached  the  gate  of  Paradise.  {With  great 
emotion.)  Will  my  comrades  drive  me  back?  (Rob- 
bers laugh.)  Charles  summons  his  resolution,  and 
looks  at  them  with  dignity  and  sternness.}  Enough  1 
—Thus  far  nature  has  prevailed — now  let  the 
man  appear.  I  am  an  assassin,  and  (Walking  to- 
ward than  with  indescribable  majesty )     your  cap- 


106 


THE  RODDERS. 


tain.  Traitors,  dare  you  raise  your  arms  against  \ 
your  captain  ?  ( In  a  commanding  tone.  J  Ground 
your  muskets !  'Tis  your  leader,  who  addresses 
you.  (The  Robbers  are  ala-med,  and  throw  their 
arms  down.)  Right !,  Now  you  are  mere  children  ■ 
— I  am  free.  Moor  must  be  free  in  order  to  be 
great.  I  would  not  exchange  the  triumphant 
sensations  which  I  now  enjoy,  for  an  elysium  of 
love.  (Draws  his  sword.)  Call  not  that  phrcn- 
zy,  which  you  are  incapable  of  calling  great.  De- 
spair outstrips  the  tardy  course  of  calm  philoso» 
phy.  A  deed  like  this  will  not  allow  deliberation 
to  precede  it.  I  will  reflect  when  it  is  done. 
( Plunges  the  sword  into  Amelia's  breast.) 

Rob.  (Clap  their  hands.)  Bravo  1  Bravo  !  Thy 
honour  is  redeemed  thou  king  of  robbers. 

Cha.  (Leans  over  Amelia.)  Now  she  is  mine 
—mine  forever — or  eternity  is  a  mere  blockhead's' 
whim.  With  my  sword  have  I  obtained  my  bride, 
in  spite  of  all  the  dragons  with  which  Fate,  my 
deadly  foe,  had  guarded  her.  Many,  many  a 
time  shall  this  our  earth  revolve  around  the  sun, 

ere  he  shall  behold  another  deed  like  this.  

Sweet  must  it  be,  Amelia,  thus  to  receive  your 
death  from  your  beloved. 

Jlme.  (Weltering  in  blood.")  Most  sweet.  Stretch- 
es forth  her  hands  and  dies.) 

Cha.  Now,  miserable  reptiles — are  you  satis* 
fied  ?  Had  you  hearts  hard  enough  to  claim  a  sa- 
crifice so  great?  Your  sacrifice  to  me  was  a  life 
of  infamy — the  victim  I  have  offered  up  to  you 
was  an  angel.  (Throws  his  sword  into  the  midst 
of  them  with  disdain.)  Banditti — we  are  even. 
Over  this  corpse  I  claim  my  liberty-— and  grant 
you  your's. 

Rob.  (Crowd  round  him.)  We  will  never  for- 
sake you. — we  will  be  obedient  till  death. 

Cha.    No,  no,  no.    My  mission  is  accomplish- 


Act  V. 


THE 


a  o  b  k  b  s . 


107 


:d.  My  genius  whispers  to  me  that  I  may  not 
proceed.  I  have  reached  the  goal  of  my  career. 
Take  back  this  blood-stained  plume.  (Throws 
it  down. J  Let  him  who  chuses  to  be  your  captain, 
take  it  up. 

Rob.  Coward!  Where  are  now  your  mighty 
projects  ?  Were  they  mere  bubbles,  which  a  wo- 
man's dying  groan  could  burst? 

Cha.  {With  dignity.)  Dare  not  to  scrutinize  what 
Moor  has  done.  This  is  my  last  command.  Now, 
form  a  circle  round  me,  and  listen  to  your  dying- 
captain's  testament.  {Rivets  his  eyes  upon  the 
hand.)  You  have  been  faithful  to  me — faithful 
Deyond  example.  Had  virtue  bound  you  as  firm- 
ly to  each  other  as  guilt,  you  had  been  heroes, 
and  your  names  had  never  been  uttered  but  with 
veneration.  Go,  and  devote  your  talents  to  the 
service  of  a  monarch,  who  is  contending  for  the 
rights  of  man.  With  this  blessing  I  disband  you. 
— Schweitzer  and  Kosinski,  stay.  (  The  Robbers 
walk  away  slowly  and  much  affected.) 

i Manent  Charles,  Schweitzer,  and  Kosinski. 

Your  hand,  Kosinski — and  your's  Schweitzer. 
\(To  Kosinski.)  Young  men,  you  are  still  uncon- 
jtaminated.  Among  the  guilty  you  alone  are  guilt- 
lless.     {To  Schweizer.)  Deeply  have  I  bathed  this 
.hand  in  blood.    'Twas  I  who  did  it  and  with  this 
!  cordial  grasp  I  claim  my  own.    Schweitzer  you 
are  free  from  guilt.    ( Raises  their  hands  with  fer- 
vour.)  Father  of  the  world,  I  restore  them  to  thee. 
They  will  serve  thee  most  faithfully  than  those 
who  never  fell.    (Kosinski  and  Schweitzer  embrace 
each  other  with  warmth.)  Not  now — not  now,  my 
friends.   Spare  me  at  this  decisive  hour.    To  day 
I  am  become  possessed  of  an  immense  domain, 
j  Divide  it  between  you — become  good  citizens, 
and,  if  for  ten  whose  comfort  I  have  blasted,  you 


108 


T11K  ROBBERS. 


Act 


confer  happiness  on  one,  my  soul  may  still  be  sav- 
ed. Go. — No  farewel — in  another  world  we  may 
meet  again.  Go,  go — ere  my  resolution  fail  me. 
{Both  conceal  their  faces  and  exeunt.)  I  too  am  a 
good  citizen.  Have  I  not  fulfilled  a  law  the  most 
horrible  ?  Have  I  not  faithfully  executed  the  ven- 
geance it  enjoined  ?  I  remember  that  when  I  first 
came  hither,  I  observed  a  poor  disbanded  officer, 
who  was  working  in  the  field,  that  he  might  sup- 
port a  numerous  family.  A  large  reward  is  offered 
to  the  man  who  shall  deliver  the  terrific  robber 
Moor  into  the  hands  of  justice.  This  officer  shall 
have  it.  (Exit, 


FINIS. 


jftesco, 

A  TRAGEDY, 

BY  FREDERICK  SCHILLER. 


Dramatic  pwscma^ 


Andreas  Doria,  Duhe  of  Genoa. 
Giancttmo  Doria,  his  Nephew. 
Lomellino,  a  Friend  of  the  Dorias. 
Fiesco,  Count  o^Lavagna,  -> 
Verrina, 
"Bourgognino, 

Calcagno,  V 

Sacco, 

Zenturione, 

Zibo, 

Asserato, 

Romano,  a  Painter. 

Muley  Hassan,  a  iMoor  of  Tunis. 


Leonora,  Wife  o/Fiesco. 

Julia,  Countess  Dowager  Imperial,  Sister  of  the  yo1 
Doria. 

Bertha,  Daughter  o/'Verrina. 


Several  Nobles,  Citizens,  Germans,  Soldiers,  Thieves. 
SCENE,  Genoa.— Time,  the  year  1547. 


Rosa, 
Arabella, 


F  IE  S  C  O. 


a  c  r  i. 


Scene  I. — A  saloon  in  Fiesco's  house.     The  dis- 
tant sound  of  dancing  and  music  is  heard. 
Leonora,    masked,   and  attended  by  Rosa  and 
Arabella,   enters  hastily — tears  off  her  mask. 


Leo.  l3AY  no  more — not  a  word  more.    It  is  as 
:Iear  as  clay. — This  quite  overcomes  me — 
Arab.    My  lady  ! 

Leo.  What,  before  my  eyes  !  with  a  known 
:oquet  !  and  in  the  sight  of  the  whole  nobility  of 
Genoa. — Rosa — Arabella —  before  my  weeping 
kyes. 

Rosa.  Consider  it  only  as  a  piece  of  gallantry, 
[t  was  no  more. 

Leo.  Gallantry  !  What!  Their  busy  interchange  of 
looks — the  anxious  watching  of  each  other's  glan- 
ces— the  kiss  eagerly  and  long  imprinted  on  her 
laked  arm,  its  fervor  marked  by  a  deep  spot  of 
glowing  crimson.  Ah,  and  the  transport  that  en- 
i.vrap'd  his  soul,  when  with  fixed  eyes  he  sate 
ike  painted  ecstasy  ;  as  if  the  world  around  him 
•ffere  blown  away,  and  nought  remained  in  the 
eternal  void,  but  he  and  Julia.  Gallantry  !  Poor 
hing  !  Thou  hast  never  loved.  Think  not,  that 
hou  canst  teach  me  to  distinguish  gallantry  from 
ove. 

I  Rosa.  No  matter,  Madam — to  lose  a  husband 
s  to  gain  ten  lovers. 

Leo.  To  lose  1— Is  this  slight  shock  of  sensi- 
>ility  a  proof  that  I  have  lost  Fiesco  ?  Go,  hate- 


4  rrEsco.  Act  I, 

ful  slanderer  !  Never  again  appear  before  me  ! 
'Twas  an  innocent  frolic — perhaps  a  piece  of  gal- 
lantry— Say  my  dear  Arabella,  was  it  not  so  ? 

Arab.    Doubtless  it  was,  Madam. 

Leo.  (In  a  reverie.)  Is  it  so  ?  Does  she  then 
know  herself  the  mistress  of  his  heart !  Does  her 
name  lurk  in  his  inmost  thoughts,  meet  him  in 
every  movement  of  his  mind  ? — What  ideas  are 
these  ?  Whither  will  they  lead  me  ?  Can  it  be, 
that  this  beauteous  majestic  world  is  to  him  no- 
thing, but  the  precious  diamond,  whereon  her 
image — her  image  only  is  engraved  ?  Love  her ! 
Love  Julia  !  Oh  !  Your  arm — support  me,  Ara- 
bella !    {A  pause,  music  is  again  heard.) 

Leo.  (Starting.)  Hark  !  Was  not  that  Fiesco's 
voice,  which  from  the  tumult  penetrated  even 
hither  ?  Can  he  laugh,  while  his  Leonora  weeps 
in  solitude  ?  Oh,  no,  my  child,  it  was  the  coarse 
loud  voice  of  Gianettmo. 

Arab.  It  was,  Signora — but,  come  into  another 
apartment. 

Leo.  You  change  colour,  Arabella — you  are  false. 
Iu  your  looks,  in  the  looks  of  all  the  inhabitants  of 
Genoa,  I  read  a  something — a  something  which 
— (hiding  her  face) — oh,  certainly  they  know 
more,  than  a  wife's  ear  should  be  acquainted 
with  ! 

Rosa.    Ah,  how  does  jealousy  magnify  every 

trifle  ! 

Leo.  When  he  was  still  Fiesco,  when  in  the 
orange-grove,  where  we  damsels  walked,  I  saw 
him — a  blooming  Apollo  matured  into  the  manly 
beauty  of  Antinous  ! — Such  was  his  noble  and 
sublime  deportment,  as  if  the  illustrious  state  of 
Genoa  rested  alone  upon  his  youthful  shoulders. 
Our  eyes  stole  trembling  glances  at  him,  and 
shrunk  back,  as  if  with  conscious  guilt,  whenever  j 
they  encountered  the  lightning  of  his  looks.    Ah  j 


rrEsco. 


5 


Arabella,   how  we  devoured  those  looks  !  with 
vhat  anxious  envy,  did  every  one  count  those, 
jjhat  were  directed  to  her  companions  !  they  fell 
imong  us,  like  the  golden  apple  of  discord — ten- 
Ijler  eyes  burned  more  fiercely — soft  bosoms  beat 
wore  wildly — jealousy  burst  asunder  ail  our  bonds 
«>f  friendship — 

I  Arab.  I  remember  it  well.-  AH  the  females 
|pf  Genoa  contended  for  a  prize  so  beauteous. 

Leo.  And  now  to  c  ill  him  mine  !  giddy,  won- 
flfocus  fortune  ! — to  call  the  boast  of  Genoa  mine  ! 
H — who  from  the  chissel  of  the  exhaustless  artist, 
IfNature,  sprang  forth  all-perfect,  combining  every 
■greatness  of  his  sex  in  the  most  lovely  union. 
■  Hear  me,  damsels  !  I  can  no  longer  conceal  it— 
Ihear  me  !  I  confide  to  you  something — a  thought  i 
■[—when  I  stood  at  the  altar  with  Fiesco,  when 
Ihis  hand  lay  in  miner  a  thoughty  too  daring 
lifor  woman,  rushed  across  me.  4 'This  Fiesco, 
|  whose  hand  now  lies — in  thine — thy  Fiesco" — But 
Bluish  !  lest  any. one  should  hear  us  thus  boasting 
of  my  husband — "This,  thy  Fiesco" — ah  why: 
lean  you  not  share  my  feelings  ! — "  will  free 
Genoa  from  its  tyrants." — 

I  Arab.  And  this  thought  came  to  a  female  mind 
'iamid  the  nuptial  ceremonies? 

Leo.  Yes,  my  Arabella, — well  may 'st  thou  be 
|l astonished — to  the  bride  it  came,  even  in  the  joy 
[of  the  bridal  day.  I  am  a  woman,  but  I  feel  the 
f  nobleness  of  my  blood.    I  cannot  bear  to  see  these 

proud  Dorias  thus  overtop  our  family.  The  good 
|  old  Andreas — it  is  a  pleasure  to  esteem  him — He 

may  indeed,  unenvied,  bear  the  ducal  dignity  ; 
I  but  Gianettino  is  his  nephew — his  heir — And  Gi- 

anettino  has  a  proud  and  wicked  heart.  Genoa 

trembles  before  him,  and  Fiesco — Fiesco— weej>j 

with  me,  damsels  ! — loves  his  sister. 
Arab.    Alas3  my  wretched  mistress  1- 
k  2- 


6 


FIESCO. 


Act 


Leo,    Go  now,  and  see  this  demi-god  amid  the 
shameless  circles  of  debauchery  and  lust  1  he£ 
the  vile  jests  and  wanton  ribaldry,  with  which  h< 
entertains  his  base  companions  !  That  is  Fiesci 
Ah,  damsels,  not  only  Genoa  has  lost  its  here 
but  I  have  lost  my  husband— 

Rosa,     Speak  lower  1    some   one    is  coming 
through  the  gallery. 

Leo,    Ha  1  'Tis  Fiesco — let  us  hasten  away- 
thc  sight  of  me  might  for  a  moment  interrupt  his 
happiness — (She  hastens  into  a  side  apartment,  Th 
maids  jolloiv  her,) 

Scene  II. — Gianettino  Doria  masked,  in 
green  cloak,  and  the  Moor,  enter  in  conversation. 

Gian,  Thou  hast  understood  what  I  have  been 
saying  ? 

Moor.  Well— 
Gian,    The  white  mask— 
Moor.    Well — 

Gian.    I  say,  the  white  mask— 

Moor.    Well— well— well— 

Gian.    Dost  thou  mark  me  ?  Dire£l  it  here- 
( pointing  to  his  breast.) 

Moor,    Give  yourself  no  concern. 

Gian,    And  let  the  blow  be  hard — 

Moor,    He  shall  be  satisfied. 

Gian,  That  the  poor  Count  may  not  have 
lone  to  suffer. 

Moor,  With  your  leave,  Sir,  a  word — at  what 
•weight  do  you  estimate  his  head  ? 

Gian,    What  weight?  An  hundred  sequins— . 

Moor,    Poh  !  A  trifle  ! 

Gian,    What  art  thou  muttering  there  ? 

Moor,     I  was  saying  it  is  light  work. 

Gian,  That  is  thy  concern — He  is  the  very 
loadstone  of  sedition — Mark  me,  sirrah  ! — let  thy 
blow  be  sure — 


Act  I.  i-iesco.  7 

Moor,  But,  Sir,  I  must  to  Venice,  immedi- 
ately after  the  deed. 

Gian,  Then  take  my  thanks  beforehand.  ( He 
throws  him  a  bank  note.)  In  three  days,  at  farthest, 
he  must  be  cold.  ( Exit, 

Moor.  ( Picking  up  the  note.)  Well,  this  is 
surely  dealing  upon  credit,  to  trust  the  simple 
word  of  such  a  rogue  as  I  am.  (Exit* 

Scene  III. — Calcagno,  behind  him  Sacco,  both 
in  black  cloaks. 

Cal.    I  perceive  thou  watchest  all  my  steps. 

Sacco.  And  I  observe  thou  wishest  to  conceal 
them  from  me.  Attend,  Calcagno !  For  some 
weeks  past  I  have  remarked  the  workings  of  thy 
countenance.  They  bespeak  a  different  secret  than 
that,  which  concerns  the  interests  of  our  country. 
Brother,  I  should  think,  that  we  might  mutually 
exchange  our  confidence,  without  a  loss  on  either 
side.    What  say'st  thou  ?  wilt  thou  be  sincere  ? 

Cal.  So  truly,  that  thou  shalt  not  need  to  dive 
into  the  recesses  of  my  soul :  my  heart  shall  fly 
half  way  to  meet  thee  on  my  tongue — I  love  the 
Countess  of  Fiesco. 

Sacco.  That  at  least,  I  should  not  have  disco- 
vered, had  I  made  all  possibilities  pass  in  review 
before  me.  Thy  choice  itself  my  mind  is  tortur- 
ed to  account  for  ;  but  its  success  would  over- 
whelm me  with  astonishment. 

Cal.  They  say-,  she  is  a  pattern  of  the  strictest 
virtue. 

Sacco.  They  lie.  She  is  the  whole  volume  to 
the  text  of  absurdity.  Calcagno,  thou  must  choose 
one  or  the  other — either  to  give  up  thy  heart,  or 
thy  profession. 

Cal.  The  Count  is  faithless  to  her  ;  and  of  all 
the  arts  that  may  seduce  a  woman,  the  subtlest 
is  jealousy.    A  plot  against  the  Dorias  will  at  the 


s 


FIESCO. 


Act  I.. 


same  time  occupy  the  Count,  and  give  me  easy- 
access  to  his  house.  Thus,  while  the  shepherd 
guards  against  the  wolf,  the  fox  shall  unobserved, 
make  havoc  of  the  poultry. 

Sacco.  Incomparable  brother  !  receive  my  thanks  L 
a  blush  is  now  superfluous,  and  I  can  tell  thee 
openly,  what  just  now  I  was  half  ashamed  to  think* 
I  am  a  beggar,  if  the  government  be  not  soon, 
overturned. 

Cal.    What,  are  thy  debts  so  great? 

Sacco,  So  immense,  that  even  one  tenth  of 
them  would  more  than  swallow  up  ten  times  my 
income.  A  convulsion  of  the  state  will  give  me- 
breath,  and  if  it  do  not  cancel  all  my  debts,  at 
least  'twill  stop  the  mouths  of  bawling  creditors.  1 

Cal.  I  understand  thee  :  and  if,  amidst  this* 
bustle,  Genoa  should  be  freed,  Sacco  will  be  hail'd 
1- is  country's  saviour.  Let  no  one  trick  out  to  me 
the  thread-bare  tale  of  honesty,  when  I  see  the 
fate  of  empires  hang  on  the  bankruptcy  of  a  pro- 
digal, and  the  lust  of  a  debauchee-  By  Heavenr 
Sacco,  this  looks  like  the  hand  of  Providence,  to< 
heal  the  corruptions  in  the  heart  of  the  state  by 
the  vile  ulcers  on  its  limbs*  Is  thy  design  unfold- 
ed to  Verrina  ? 

Sacco.  As  far  as  it  can  be  unfolded  to  a  pa-- 
triot.  Thou  knowesthis  iron  integrity,  which  ever 
tends  to  that  one  point,  his  country.  His  hawk- 
like eye  is  now  fixed  on  Fiesco,  and  he  has  half 
conceived  a  hope  of  thee,  to  join  the  bold  con- 
spiracy. 

Cal.  Oh,  he's  sagacious  1  Come,  let's  seek 
for  him,  and  blow  up  the  flame  of  liberty  within 
his  breast  by  our  accordant  spirit.-  {Exeunt* 


ict  I. 


Icene  IV. — Julia,  and  Fiesco,  in  a  white  mask, 
following  her. 

Julia,    My  servants! — footman! — 

Fies.  Countess,  whither  are  you  going? — What 
;o  you  intend  ?— 

Julia.  Nothing — nothing  at  all. — {To  the  ser- 
vants ivho  enter,  and  immediately  retire.) — Let  my 
:arriage  draw  up— 

Fies.  Pardon  me,  it  must  not — You  are  of- 
ended— 

Julia.  Oh,  by  no  means — Away — you  tear  my 
.  Iress  to  pieces. — Offended !  Who  is  here,  that 
an  offend  me  ?  Go,  pray  go — 

'Fies.  (Upon  one  knee.)  Not  till  you  tell  me, 
vhat  impertinent — 

Julia.  Fine  1 — This  is  very  fine. — Oh,  that  the 
Countess  of  Lavagna  might  be  called  to  view  this 
:harming  scene !  How,  Count !  is  this  like  a 
msband  !  This  posture  would  suit  well  the  cham- 
)er  of  your  wife,  when  she  turns  over  the  journal 
)f  your  caresses,  and  finds  a  void  in  the  account, 
ilise,  Sir,  and  seek  those,  to  whom  your  services 
nay  prove  more  acceptable, — Rise — unless  you 
hink  your  gallantries  will  excuse  your  wife's  im- 
pertinence. 

Fies.    ( Jumping  up.  J  Impertinence!  To  you  ? 
>  Julia.    To  break  up  !  To  push  away  her  chair  ! 
To  turn  her  back  upon  the  table — that  table,  Count, 
where  I  was  sitting — 
;   Fies.    'Tis  inexcusable. 

Julia.  And  is  that  all  ?  O  admirably  played  ! 
Am  I,  then,  to  blame,  because  the  Count  sees 
with  discerning  eyes  ? 

Fies.  If  they  are  dazzled,  Madam,  'tis  only 
oy  your  beauty. 

Julia.  Away  with  compliment,  where  honor 
s  concerned — Count,  I  insist  on  satisfaction— 
Where  shall  I  find  it,  in  you,  or  in  my  uncle's, 
rengeance  ? 


TO 


FIESCO. 


Act 


Fies.    Find  it  in  the  arms  of  love — Of 
that  would  repair  the  offence  of  jealousy. 

Julia.    Jealousy  I  Poor  thing  !  What  woi 
she  wish  for  ?  {Admiring  herself  in  the  glass.) 
it  not  compliment  enough,  when  I  declare 
taste  jr.y  own  ?  Doria,  and  Fiesco  ! — If  Doru 
niece  approve  the  Countess  of  Lavagna's  choic 
it  is  sufficient  honor.    (In  a  friendly  tone,  oj 
ing  the  Count  her  hand  to   kiss.)  Count,  supp( 
I  should  approve  it  ? 

Fiesco.  Cruel  Countess  !  Thus  to  torment 
I  know,  divine  Julia,  that  respect  is  all  I  o\\\ 
to  feel  for  you.  My  reason  bids  me  bend  a  si 
jecTs  knee  before  the  race  of  Doria  ;  but 
heart  adores  the  beauteous  Julia — My  love  is  cri- 
minal, but  'tis  heroic  ;  for  it  o'erleaps  the  boun- 
daries of  rank,  and  soars  toward  the  sun  of  ma- 
jesty. 

Julia.  O  ill-contrived  excuse  ?  Whilst  his 
tongue  deifies  me,  his  heart  beats  beneath  the 
picture  of  another. 

Fies.  Rather  say,  it  beats  indignantly  against 
it,  and  would  shake  off  the  odious  burden.  (Tak- 
ing the  picture  o/*  Leonora  which  is  suspended  by  a 
sky-blue  riband  from  his  breast,  and  delivering  it  to 
Julia.)  Place  your  own  image  on  that  altar,  and 
you  will  instantly  annihilate  this  idol. 

Julia.  This  sacrifice  indeed  deserves  my 
thanks — So,  my  slave,  henceforth  bear  your 
badge  of  service.  (Hangs  her  own  picture  about  his 
neck — and  exit.) 

Fies.  Julia  loves  me — Julia — I  would  not  envy 
even  a  god.  Let  this  night  outdo  the  pleasures 
of  the  gods.  Joy  shall  attain  its  summit.  Ho  ! 
within  there  !  (Servants  come  running  in.)  See 
that  the  floor  drink  Cyprian  nectar — Let  the 
strains  of  music  rouse  midnight  from  her  leaden 
slumber — Let  a  thousand  burning  lamps  mock 


Act  L 


tiesco. 


I 


>ut  the  morning  sun — Let  pleasure  reign  su- 
n-erne— an(l  let  the  Bacchanal  dance  so  wildly 
)eat  the  ground,  that  the  dark  kingdom  of  the 
ihadcs  below  may  tremble  at  the  uproar  ! — (Exit 
hastily — An  allegro,  during  which  the  back  scene 
)pens,  and  discovers  a  grand  illuminated  saloon, 
nany  masks  dancing— At  the  side,  drinking  and  pi  ay- 
ng  tables,  surrounded  ivith  company, J 

Scene  V. — Gianettino,  almost  intoxicated,  Lo- 

MELLINO,     ZlBO,     ZeNTURIONE,  VERRINA, 

Calcagno,  all  masked,— 'Several  other  Nobles 
and  Ladies, 

Gian,  Bravo  1  Bravo  !  These  wines  glide  down 
charmingly. — The  dancers  perform  a  merveille,— 
jo  one  of  you,  and  publish  it  throughout  Genoa, 
hat  I  am  in  good  humour,  and  that  every  one 
nay  enjoy  himself.  By  my  birth,  this  day  shall 
)e  marked  in  the  calendar  as  fortunate,  and  un- 
lcr  it  shall  be  written — To-day  the  Prince  was 
nerry. — 

'The  guests  lift  their  glasses  to  their  mouths — A  ge- 
neral toast  of  "  The  Republic," — Sound  of  trum- 
pets,) 

Gian,    The  Republic  ?  {throwing  his  glass  vio~ 
ently  on  the  ground,)    There  lie  its  fragments. 
Three  black  masks  suddenly  rise,  and  collect  about 

jIANETTINO.J 

Lorn,  (Supporting  Gianettino  on  his  arm,) 
VI  y  Lord,  you  lately  spoke  of  a  young  girl,  whom 
'ou  saw  in  the  church  of  St.  Lorenzo. 

Gian,  I  did,  my  lad  1  and  I  must  know  her 
art  her. 

Lorn,    That  I  can  manage  for  your  Grace. 
Gian,    Can  you  ?  Can  you  ? — Lomellino,  you 
vere  a  candidate  for  the  procuratorship.— .You 
i;ihall  have  it. — 

Lorn,    Gracious  Prince,  it  is  the  dignity  in  the 


12  rinsco. 

state,  more  than  threescore  noblemen  seek  it,  ant 
all  of  them  more  wealthy  and  honorable  than  you 
Grace's  humble  servant. — 

Gian.  By  the  name  of  Doria,  you  shall  be  pro 
curator — {the  three  masks  come  forward) — Wha 
talk  you  of  nobility  in  Genoa?  Let  them  all  thro\ 
their  ancestry  and  honors  into  the  scale,  one  hai 
from  the  white  beard  of  my  uncle  will  make  i 
kick  the  beam. — It  is  my  will — You  shall  be  pre 
curator. — That's  sufficient  to  bear  down  the  vote 
of  the  whole  senate. 

Lorn.  {In  a  low  voice.)  The  damsel  is  the  onl 
daughter  of  one  Verrina. 

Gian,  The  girl  is  pretty,  and  in  spite  of  all  th 
devils  in  hell,  I  must  possess  her. 

Lorn.  What,  my  Lord !  the  only  child  of  th 
most  obstinate  of  our  opponents  ? 

Gian,  What  care  I  for  your  opponents?  Sha 
I  have  my  passion  thwarted  by  the  anger  of  a  va: 
sal  ?  'Tis  as  vain,  as  to  expect  the  Tower  shoul 
fall,  when  boys  pelt  it  with  muscle-shells,  (m 
three  black  masks  step  nearer,  with  great  emotion*. 
What !  Has  the  Duke  Andreas  gained  his  sew 
in  battle  for  their  wives  and  children,  only  thi 
his  nephew  should  court  the  favor  of  these  scow 
drels  ?  By  the  name  of  Doria  they  swallow  tft, 
fancy  of  mine,  or  I  will  plant  a  gallows  over  til 
bones  of  my  uncle,  on  which  the  liberty  of  Gem 
shall  breath  its  last.  (  The  three  masks  step  back  I 
disgust. ) 

Lorn.    The  damsel  is  at  this  moment  alon  ! 

Her  father  is  here,  and  one  of  those  three  mask  1 
Gian.  Excellent !  Bring  me  instantly  to  her.-| 
Lorn.    You  expect  perhaps  to  meet  a  girl  i 

light  deportment,  but  you  will  see  a  woman  1 

sensibilty. 

Gian.  Force  is  the  best  rhetoric — Lead  me  'I 
ner — Would  I  could  see  that  republican  dog  th  I 


ict  I.  tiesco.  1 3 

urst  attack  the  bear  Doria — {going,  m  eels  Fiesco 
t  the  door,)   Where  is  the  Countess  ? 

Scene  VI. — Fiesco  and  the  Former. 

Fies,  I  have  handed  her  to  her  carriage— 
takes  Gianettino's  hand,  and  presses  it  to  his 
reast.)  Prince,  I  am  now  doubly  your  slave-  To 
ou  I  bow,  as  sovereign  of  Genoa — to  your  lovely 
ister,  as  mistress  of  my  heart. 

Lorn,  Fiesco  is  become  a  mere  votary  of  plea- 
ure.    The  great  world  has  lost  much  in  you. 

Fies.  But  in  giving  up  the  world,  I  have  lost 
lothing.  To  live  is  to  dream,  and  to  dream  plea- 
antly  is  to  be  wise.  Can  this  be  done  more  cer- 
.\inly  amid  the  thunders  of  a  throne,  where  the 
wheels  of  government  creak  incessantly  upon  the 
ortured  ear,  than  on  the  heaving  bosom  of  an 
namoured  woman  ? — Let  Gianettino  rule  over 
|>enoa  ;  Fiesco  shall  devote  himself  to  love. 

Gian.    Away,  Lomellino  I  It  is  near  midnight. 
The  time  draws  near — Lavagna,  we  thank  thee 
:>r  thy  entertainment — I  have  been  satisfied. — 
I  Fies,    That,  Prince,  is  all  that  I  can  wish. 

Gian.    Then  good  night !  To-morrow  we  have 

party  at  the  palace,  and,  Fiesco  is  invited— 
Come,  procurator  ! 

Fies.    Ho  !  Lights  there  !— Music  ! — 

Gian.  (Haughtily,  rushing  through  the  three 
nasks.)  Make  way  there  for  Doria ! 

One  of  the  three  Masks. 

(Murmuring  indignantly.)  Make  way? — In  hell 
-Never  in  Genoa. 

I  The  guests.  The  Prince  is  going — Good  night, 
.avagna  ! — (They  depart.) 


VOL.  II.) 


L 


u 


FIESCO. 


A 


Scene  VII.— 'The  three  black  Masks  a 
Fiesco. 

Fies.    I  perceive  some  guest  here,  who  d 
share  the  pleasure  of  the  feast. 

Masks.    No.    Not  one  of  us. 

Fies.  Is  it  possible,  that  my  attention  sh 
have  been  wanting  to  any  one  of  my  guests  ?  Qu 
servants  1  Let  the  music  be  renewed,  and  nlltji 
goblets  high  !  I  would  not,  that  my  friends  shoul* 
find  the  time  hang  heavy.  Will  you  permit  m 
to  amuse  you  with  fireworks?  Would  you  chus 
to  see  the  frolics  of  my  harlequin  ?  Perhaps  yo 
Avould  be  pleased  to  join  the  females.  Or  shal 
we  sit  down  to  faro,  and  pass  the  time  in  play 

A  mask.  We  are  accustomed  to  spend  it  in  oc 
tion. 

Fies.  A  manly  answer  1  Such  as  bespeaks  Vei 
rian. 

Verri.  {Unmasking.)  Fiesco  can  more  easil; 
f.nd  out  his  friends  beneath  their  masks,  than  the; 
can  discover  him  in  his  disguise. 

Fies,  I  understand  you  not. — But  what  meanj 
that  crape  of  mourning  around  your  arm  ?  Ca 
death  have  robbed  Verrina  of  a  friend,  and  Fies 
co  know  not  the  loss  ? 

Verri.  Mournful  tales  ill  suit  Fiesco's  joyftj 
feasts. 

Fies.  But  if  a  friend — (Pressing  his  hand  warm 
Ij)  Friend  of  my  soul !  For  w  hom  must  we  bot 

mourn  ? 

Verri.  Both  ? — Both  ?  Oh,  'tis  too  true  we  bot 
have  sufferecl—^yet  not  all  sons  lament  their  mc 
ther. 

Fies.  'Tis  long  since  your  mother  was  mir 
gled  with  the  dust. — 

Verri.  Did  not  Fiesco  call  me  brother,  becaus 
we  both  were  sons  of  the  same  country  ? 


iit  L  fie sco.       J  13 

I  Fies.  Oh,  is  it  only  that  ?  You  meant  then  but 
)  jest  ?  The  mourning  dress  is  worn  for  Genoa  1 
frue,  she  lies  indeed  in  her  last  agonies.  The 
bought  is  new  and  singular.  Our  cousin  begins 
)  be  a  wit. 

Verr'u    Fiesco  !  I  spoke  most  seriously. 

'Fies,  Centainly — certainly. — .A  jest  loses  its 
oint,  when  he  who  makes  it,  is  the  first  to  laugh. 
-But  you?  You  looked  like  a  mute  at  a  funeral* 
Vho  could  have  thought,  that  the  austere  Ver- 
j.na  should  in  his  old  age  become  such  a  wag  ? 
|  Sacco.  Come,  Verrina. — He  never  will  be 
urs.— r 

Fies.  Let  us  enjoy  ourselves— -Let  us  a6l  the 
[art  of  the  cunning  heir,  who  walks  in  thfl  fu- 
|eral  procession  with  loud  lamentations,  laughing 
b  himself  the  while,  under  the  cover  of  his  hand- 
lerchief.  'Tis  true,  we  may  be  troubled  with  a 
arsh  step-mother. — Be  it  so — we  let  her  scold, 
)llow  our  own  pleasures. 

Verr'u  Heaven,  and  earth  !  Shall  we  then  do 
otliing  ?  What  is  become  of  you,  Fiesco  !  Where 
m  I  to  seek  that  determined  enemy  of  tyrants  ? 
"here  was  a  time,  when  but  to  see  a  crown  would 
ave  been  torture  to  you.  O,  degraded  son  of  the 
epublic  !  By  Heaven,  I  would  spurn  immortality, 
[  time  could  so  debase  my  soul. 

Fies.  O  rigid  censor  ! — Let  Doria  put  Genoa 
li  his  pocket,  or  sell  it  to  the  robbers  of  Tunis, 
[why  should  it  trouble  us  ?  We  will  revel  in  floods 
1  Cyprian  wine,  and  taste  the  sweet  caresses  of 
ur  fair  ones. 

Verri.    Are  these  your  serious  thoughts  ? 
I  Fies.    Why  should  they  not,  my  friend  ?  Think 
I  ou  'tis  a  pleasure  to  be  the  foot  of  that  many- 
igg'd  monster,  a  republic  ?  No — thanks  be  to 

im,  who  gives  it  wings,  and  deprives  the  feet  of 
Ikeir  functions  1  Let  (iianettmo  be  the  duke,  af- 


16  ^>      FIESCO.  Act  f, 

fairs  of  state  shall  ne'er  lie  heavy  on  our  heads. 

Verri.    Fiesco  !  Is  that  your  real  meaning? 

Fies.  Andreas  adopts  his  nephew  as  a  son,  and 
makes  him  heir  to  his  estates  ;  what  madman  will 
dispute  with  him  the  inheritance  of  his  power? 

Verri.  Away,  then,  Genoese!  {Leaves  Fiesco 
hastily  the  rest  follow.) 

Fies.  Vcrrina !  Verrjna !  Oh,  this  republican 
is  as  hard  as  steel ! 

Scene  VIII. — Fiesco.    A  Mask  entering,  . 

Mask,    Have  you  a  minute  or  two  to  spare,  La- 

vagna  ? 

Fies,    An  hour,  if  you  request  it. 
Mask.    Then  condescend  to  walk  into  the  fields 
with  me. 

Fies.    It  wants  but  ten  minutes  of  midnight. 

Mask.    Walk  with  me,  Count,  I  pray — . 

Fies.    I  will  order  my  carriage — 

Mask.  That  is  useless — I  shall  send  One  horse: 
we  want  no  more,  for  only  one  of  us,  I  hope, 
will  return. 

Pies.    What  say  you  ? 

Mask.    A  bloody  answer  will  be  demanded  oi 

you,  touching  a  certain  tear. 
Fies.    What  tear  r 

Mask.  A  tear  shed  by  the  Countess  of  La- 
vagna — I  am  acquainted  with  that  lady,  and  de- 
mand to  know,  how  she  has  merited  to  be  sacri- 
ficed to  a  worthless  woman  ? 

Fies.  I  understand  you  now  ;  but  let  me  ask; 
who  'tis  that  offers  such  a  challenge  ? 

Mask.  It  is  the  same,  that  once  adored  the 
lady  Zibo,  and  yielded  her  to  Fiesco. 

Fies.    Scipio  Bourgognino  ! 

Bonrg.  (Unmasking. ;  And  who  now  standi 
here  to  vindicate  his  honor,  that  yielded  to  a  ri 
val  base  enough  to  tyrannize  over  innocence. 


FIE  SCO. 


17 


i  Fies.  ( Embraces  him  with  ardor, )  Noble  youth  ! 
hanks  to  the  sufferings  of  my  consort,  which 
ave  drawn  forth  the  manly  feelings  of  your 
oul ;  I  admire  your  generous  indignation — hut  I 
efuse  your  challenge. 

H  Bourg,    Does  Fiesco  tremble  to  encounter  the 

first  efforts  of  my  sword  ? 

:|  Fies,  No,  Bourgognino  !  against  a  nation's  pow- 
li:r  combined,  I  would  boldly  venture,  but  not  a- 
;ainst  you.    The  fire  of  your  valor  is  endeared  to 
f|ne  by  a  most  lovely  object — The  will  deserves  a 
ijaurel  ;  but  the  deed  would  be  childish. 

Bourg.  Childish,  Count  1  women  can  only 
■weep  at  injuries.  'Tis  manly  to  revenge  them. 

Fies,    Well  said — but  fight  I  will  not. 
I   Bourg,    Count,  I  shall  despise  you. 

Fies,  By  Heaven,  youth,  that  thou  shalt  ne- 
[jver  do — not  even  if  virtue  fall  in  value,  shall  I 
[(become  a  bankrupt,  (laking  him  by  the  handy 
rlxvith  a  look  of  earnestness.  Did  you  ever  feel  for 
|me — what  shall  I  say — respect  ? 

Bourg,  Had  I  not  thought,  you  were  the  first 
■of  men,  I  should  not  have  yielded  to  you. 

Fies.  Then,  my  friend,  be  not  so  forward  to 
I  despise  a  man,  who  once  could  merit  your  res- 
Ipecl.  It  is  not  always,  that  the  eye  of  the  youth- 
ful artist  can  comprehend  the  master's  vast  de- 
|  sign-  Retire,  Bourgognino,  and  take  time  to 
I  weigh  the  motives  of  Fiesco's  conduct  !  [Exit 
i  Bourgognino,  in  silence,!  Go  I  noble  youth  !  if 
|  spirits  such  as  thine  break  out  in  flames,  let  the 
i  Dorias  see,  that  they  stand  fast  1 
Scene  IX.    Fiesco.     The  Moor  entering  with 

an  appearance  of  timidity,  and  looking  round  cau- 
tiously, 

Fies,  What  would 'st  thou  have  ?  who  art  thou  ? 
Moof,    A  slave  of  the  republic. 

l  2 


18  riEsco.  Act 

Fies.  Slavery  is  a  wretched  state.  What  dc 
thou  want  ? 

Moor,  Sir — I  am  an  honest  man. 

Fies.  Well  may'st  thou  assume  this  veil, 
may  not  be  superfluous — but,  what  would'st  tl 
have  ? 

Moor,    ( Approaching  A/m— Fiesco  draws  bad 
Sir,  I  am  no  villain. 

Fies,  'Tis  well  that  thou  say'st  that — and 
— 'tis  not  well  either — What  dost  thou  seek  ? 

Moor,    ( Still  approaching,)  Are  you  the  Coi 
Lavagna  ? 

Fies.  The  blind  in  Genoa  know  my  steps — wl 
would'st  thou  with  the  Count  ? 

Moor,  Be  on  your  guard,  Lavagna  !  ( close 
him.) 

Fies.     ( Passing  hastily  to  the  other  side.)  Th 
indeed,  I  am. 

Moor.  ( Again  approaching. )  Evil  designs  ^ 
formed  against  you,  Count. 

Fies.    C Retreating.)  That  I  perceive* 

Moor.    Beware  of  Doria  ! 

Fies,  ( Approaching  him,  ivith  an  air  of  confi- 
dence,) Perhaps  my  suspicions  have  wronged  thee, 
my  friend — Doria  is  indeed  the  name  I  dread. 

Moor.    Avoid  the  man,  then — can  you  read  ? 

Fies.  A  pleasant  question  I  Thou  hast  known, 
it  seems,  many  of  our  nobles — what  writing  hast 
thou  ? 

Moor,  Your  name  inscribed  in  the  fatal  list  of 
those  who  are  doom'd  to  die.  ( Presents  a  papery 
and  draws  close  to  Fiesco,  who  is  standing  before  a 
looking-glass,  and  glancing  over  the  paper — the 
INI oo r  steals  round  him,  draws  a  dagger,  and  is 
going  to  stab, ) 

Fies,  (Turning  round  dexterously,  and  seizing 
the  Moor's  arm.)  Stop  scoundrel  !  {Wrests  the 
dagger  from  him.) 


Act  L  FIESCO.  If 

Moor.  (Stamps  in  a  frantic  manner.)  Damna- 
tion ! — Pardon  I 

Fies.  (Seizing  him  calls  with  a  loud  voice.) 
Stephano  Drullo  !  Antonio  !  (holding  the 
Moor  by  the  throat.)  Stay,  my  friend  ! — what 
hellish  villany  !  (Servants  enter.)  Stay,  and  an- 
swer— thou  hast  performed  thy  task  but  badly. 
Who  pays  thy  wages  I 

Moor.  ( After  several  fruitless  attempts  to  escape.) 
You  cannot  hang  me  higher,  than  the  gallows  are. 

Fies.    No — be    comforted — not  on    the  horns- 
of  the  moon  ;  but  higher  than  ever  yet  were  gal- 
lows— Yet  hold  !  Thy  scheme  was  too  politic  to 
I  be  of  thy  own  contrivance  :  speak,  fellow  !  who 
hired  thee  1 

Moor.  Think  me  a  rascal,  Sir,  but  not  a  fool. 
■  Fies.  What,  is  the  scoundrel  proud  ?  Speak, 
sirrah  I — Who  hired  thee  I 

Moor.  (Aside.)  Shall  I  alone  be  called  a  fool  ? 
Who  hired  me  i — 'Twas  but  a  hundred  miserable 
sequins — Who  hired  me,  did  you  ask  I — Prince 
Gianettino. 

Fies.  A  hundred  sequins  i  And  is  that  the 
value  set  upon  Fiesco's  head  ?  Shame  on  the 
Prince  of  Genoa  1  Here,  fellow — ( taking  money 
from  a  scrutore )  are  a  thousand  for  thee.  Tell 
thy  master  he  is  a  mean  assassin.  ( Moor  looks 
\at  him  with  astonishment.) 

Fies*    What  dost  thou  gaze  at  ? 
If  Moor  takes  up  the  money — lays  it  down  — takes. 

it  up  again,  and  looks  at  Fiesco  with  increased 

astonishment.) 

Fies.    What  dost  thou  mean  ? 
Moor.    (  Throwing  the  money  resolutely  upon  the 
'able.)  Sir,  that  money  I  have  not  worked  for— .1 
,  leserve  it  not. 

,  Fies.  Blockhead,  thou  hast  deserved  the  gal- 
ows  j  but  the  offended  elephant  trambles  on  me% 


20 


FIESCO. 


Act  I. 


not  worms.  Thy  life  hangs  on  a  word  of  mine 
•—were  it  of  more  importance,  thou  should'st 
die. 

Moor,  ( Bowing.)  Sir,  you  are  too  good — 
Ties.  What,  toward  thee  !  God  forbid  !  No, 
I  am  amused  to  think  a  nod  of  mine  can  preserve 
or  annihilate  such  petty  villains.  That  'tis,  which 
saves  thee.  Mark  my  words — I  take  thy  failure  as 
an  omen  of  my  future  success — 'tis  this  thought 
that  renders  me  indulgent,  and  preserves  thy 
life. 

Moor.  Count,  your  hand  '  you  shall  find  me 
not  ungrateful.  If  any  man  in  this  country  has  a 
throat  too  much — command  me,  and  I'll  cut  it 
gratis. 

Fies.  Obliging  scoundrel  !  He  would  show  his 
gratitude  by  cutting  throats  ! 

Moor.  Men,  like  me,  Sir,  receive  no  favor 
without  acknowledgment.  We  know  what  ho- 
nor is. 

Fies.    The  honor  of  assassins  ! 

Moor. — Is  perhaps  more  to  be  relied  on,  than 
that,  which  men  of  character  pretend  to.  You 
break  your  oaths  made  in  the  name  of  God.  We 
keep  ours  made  to  the  devil. 

Fits.    Thy  villany  amuses  me. 

Moor.  I  am  happy  to  meet  your  approbation. 
Try  me — you  will  find  in  me  a  man,  who  is  a 
thorough  master  of  his  profession.  Examine  me 
—I  am  versed  in  every  branch  of  villany,  through 
all  its  different  degrees. 

FieS.  So — there  are  laws  and  system  then,] 
even  among  thieves.  What  canst  thou  tell  me  I 
of  the  lowest  class  ? 

Moor.  O  Sir,  they  are  petty  villains,  mere! 
pickpockets.  They  are  a  miserable  set.  Theiil 
trade  never  produces  a  man  of  genius-— 'tis  con  I 


FIESCO. 


21 


fined  to  the  whip  and  workhouse— and  at  most 
can  lead  but  to  the  gallows. 

Fies.  A  noble  object  1  I  should  like  to  hear 
something  of  a  superior  class. 

Moor,  The  next  are  spies  and  informers- 
tools  of  importance  to  the  great,  who  from  their 
secret  information  derive  their  own  supposed  om- 
niscience. These  villains  insinuate  themselves 
into  the  souls  of  men  like  leeches,  to  suck  out 
their  secrets — they  draw  poison  from  the  heart, 
and  spit  it  forth  against  the  very  source,  from 
whence  it  came. 

Fies.    I  understand  thee— go  on — 

Moor.  Then  come  the  conspirators,  villains 
that  deal  in  poison,  and  bravoes  that  rush  upon 
their  victims  from  some  secret  covert.  Cowards 
they  often  are,  but  yet  they  sell  their  souls  to  the 
devil  ;  and  even  here  they  are  treated  scurvily. 
The  hand  of  justice  binds  their  limbs  to  the  rack, 
or  plants  their  cunning  heads  on  spikes — this  is 
the  third  class— 

Fies.    But  speak  !  When  comes  thy  own  ? 

Moor.  Patience,  my  Lord — that  is  the  very 
point  I  am  coming  to — Already  have  I  passed 
through  all  the  stages  that  I  mentioned  :  my  ge- 
nius soon  soared  beyond  their  limits.  'Twas  but 
last  night  I  made  my  trial  in  the  third— This  even- 
ing I  attempted  the  fourth — and  was  a  bungler. 

Fies.    And  how  do  you  describe  that  class  ? 

Moor.  They  are  men,  who  press  right  on- 
ward to  their  object,  cutting  their  way  through 
danger.  They  strike  at  once,  and  by  their  first 
salute,  save  him,  whom  they  approach,  the  trou- 
ble of  returning  thanks  for  a  second.  Briefly, 
they  are  called  the  swiftest  messengers  of  hell: 
and  when  Beelzebub  is  hungry,  at  the  first  hint, 
they  send  his  victims  to  him  smoking  in  their 
blood. 


FIESCO. 


Act  L 


Fies.  Thou  art  an  hardened  villain — such  a 
tool  I  want.  Give  me  thy  hand — thou  shalt  serve 
me. 

Moor.    Do  you  speak  in  earnest  or  in  jest  ? 

Fies.  Most  seriously — and  I'll  pay  thee  yearly 
a  thousand  sequins. 

Moor.  Done,  Lavagna ! — I  am  yours.  Away 
with  common  business — employ  me  in  whate'er 
you  will — I'll  be  your  setter,  or  your  blood -hound 
—your  fox,  your  viper — your  pimp,  or  execu- 
tioner. I'm  prepared  for  all  commissions— ex- 
cept honest  ones — in  those  I  am  as  stupid,  as  a 
block. 

Fies.  Fear  not  ;  I  would  not  set  the  wolf  to 
guard  the  lamb.  Go  thou  through  Genoa  to-mor* 
row  and  sound  the  temper  of  the  people.  Nar«.< 
rowly  inquire  what  they  think  of  the  government,, 
and  of  the  house  of  Doria — What  of  me,  my  de- 
baucheries, and  romantic  passion.  Charge  their 
heads  with  wine,  until  their  secret  sentiments 
flow  out.  Here's  money — lavish  it  among  the 
m  an  uf a  clu  r  e  r  s — 

Moor.    Sir  ! — 

Fies,  Be  not  afraid — no  honesty  is  in  the  case. 
Go,  collect  what  help  thou  canst.  To-morro\* 
I  will  hear  thy  report.  ( Exit  J 

Moor.  Rely  on  me.  It  is  now  four  o'clock . 
in  the  morning,  by  eight  to-morrow  you  shall 
hear  as  much  news  as  twice  seventy  spies  can 
furnish.  (Exitl 

Scet:e  X. — An  apartment  in  the  house  o/Verrina. 

Bertha  on  a  couch,  supporting  her  head  on  her 
hand — Verrina  enters  with  a  look  of  dejection, 

Ber.  (Starts  up  frightened.)  Heavens  I  He  is 
here  ! 

Ver.  ( Stops,  looking  at  her  with  surprise. )  My 
daughter,  affrighted  at  her  father  ! 


Act  I. 


F1ESC0. 


33 


Ber.  Fly  !  Fly  !  or  let  me  fly  !  Father,  your 
sight  is  dreadful  to  me. 

Ver.    Dreadful  to  my  child  ! — my  only  child  ! 

Ber.  No — you  must  seek  another — I  am  no 
more  your  daughter. 

Ver.    What,  does  my  tenderness  distress  you  I 

Ber.    It  weighs  me  down  to  the  earth. 

Ver.  How,  my  daughter !  do  you  receive  me 
thus  ?  Formerly,  when  I  came  home,  my  heart 
overburden 'd  with  the  weight  of  sorrows,  my 
Bertha  meeting  me  smiled  them  away.  Come, 
embrace  me,  my  daughter !  Reclined  upon  thy 
glowing  bosom,  my  heart,  when  chilled  by  the 
sufferings  of  my  country,  shall  grow  warm  again. 
Oh,  my  child,  this  day  I  have  bidden  farewel  to 
all  the  pleasures  of  nature,  and  thou  alone  re- 
mainest  to  me. 

Ber.     Wretched  father  ! 
I    Ver.    (Eagerly   embracing  her.)    Bertha  I  my 
only  child  !  Bertha  !  my  last  remaining  hope  ! 
The  liberty  of  Genoa  is  lost — Fiesco  is  lost — and 
thou  ( pressing  her  more   strongly ,    with  a  look  of 
mdespair)  may'st  be  dishonour'd  I 

Ber.  (Tearing  herself  from  him.)  Great  God  ! 
|:You  know,  then — 

Ver.    What  ? 
!   Ber.    My  virgin  honor— 

Ver.    What  ? 
I    Ber.    Last  night— 

Ver.    Speak  !  What  ! 

Ber.  Force  ! — ( sinks  down  by  the  side  of  the 
■  sofa.) 

Ver.    (after  a  long  pause — with  a  hollow  voice. J 
One  Word  more,  my  daughter,  though  it  be  thy 
I  (last — Who  was  it  ? 

Ber.  Alas,  what  an  angry  death-like  paleness  ! 
t  Great  God,  support  me  !  How  his  words  faulter  ! 
llHow  his  whole  frame  trembles  J 


24  fiesco.  Act  L 

Ver.    I  cannot  comprehend  it — Tell  me,  my 

daughter — Who  ? 

Ber.  Compose  yourself,  my  best,  my  dearest 
father  ! 

Ver.    For  God's  sake— Who  ! 
Ber.    A  mask- — 

Ver.  No  !  That  cannot  be — the  thought  is 
idle — What  a  fool  am  I,  to  think  that  all  the 
poison  of  my  life  can  flow  but  from  one  source  1 
(Firmly,  addressi?ig  himself  to  Bertha.)  What 
v.ras  his  stature,  less  than  mine,  or  taller  ? 

Ber.  Taller. 

Ver.  (Eagerly.)  His  hair  ?  Was  it  black  and 
curled  ! 

Ber.    As  black  as  jet,  and  curled. 

Ver.  (Retiring  from  her  in  great  emotion.)  0 
God  !  my  brain  1  my  brain  ! — His  voice  I 

Ber.    Was  deep  and  harsh. 

Ver.  What  colour  was — no,  I'll  hear  no  more 
—His  cloak!— What  colour? — 

Ber.    I  think,  his  cloak  was  green. 

Ver.  ( Covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  falls  on 
the  couch.)  No  more — This  can  be  nothing  but 
a  dream. 

Ber.  (Wringing  her  hands.)  Merciful  Hea- 
ven !  Is  this  my  father  ? 

Ver.  (After  a  pause,  with  a  forced  smile.)  Right 
—It  serves  thee  right — coward  Verrina !  The 
villain  broke  into  the  sanctuary  of  the  laws — This 
did  not  rouse  thee.  Then  he  violated  the  sanc- 
tuary of  thy  honor — (Starting  up.)  Quick  !  Ni-j 
colo  !  Bring  me  hither  balls  and  powder — but 
stay — my  sword  were  better.  (To  Bertha.)  Say: 
thy  prayers  ! — Ah  !  what  am  I  going  to  do  ? 

Ber.    Father,  you  make  me  tremble. 

Ver.  Come,  sit  by  me,  Bertha  I  (In  a  solemi 
manner.)  Tell  me,  Bertha,  what  did  that  grey- 
hair'd  Roman,  when  his  daughter— like  you— i 


\4ct  L  fie sco.  25 

iow  can  I  speak  it  I — fell  a  prey  to  ignominy  ? 
Tell  me,  Bertha,  what  said  Virginius  to  his  dis- 
lonored  daughter  ? 

i   Ber.    (  Shuddering.)  I  know  not  what  he  said — 
Ver,    Foolish  girl !  Nothing  did  he  say — but 
'rising  hastily,  and  snatching  up  a  sword  )  he  seiz- 
ed an  instrument  of  death — 

Ber,    (Terrified,  rushes  into  his  arms,)  Great 
iod  ! — What  would  you  do,  my  father! 
,   Ver,    (Throwing  away  the  sword,)  No — There 
s  still  justice  left  in  Genoa. 

Scene  XI. — Sacco,  Calcagno,  the  Former. 

i  Cal*  Verrina,  quick!  prepare!  to-day  begins 
he  election.  Let  us  to  the  Senate-House  to  choose 
he  new  Senators.  The  streets  are  full  of  people, 
'ou  will  undoubtedly  accompany  us — to  behold 
jhe  triumph  of  our  liberty. 

J  Sacco,  (To  Calcagno. )  Dost  thou  see  that 
word  ?  Verrina  has  wildness  in  his  looks — and 
;3ertha  is  in  tears. 

Cal,  By  heavens,  it  is  so.  Sacco,  some  strange 
invent  has  happened  here. 
J  Ver,    Be  seated.-^- 

\  Sacco.  Your  looks,  Verrina,  fill  us  with  appre- 
hension. 

I  Cal,    I  never  saw  you  thus  before — Your  grief, 
should  have  thought  presaged  the  ruin  of  our 

ountry-— but  Bertha  also  is  in  tears. — 
I  Ver,    Ruin  ! — Pray  sit  down — ( they  both  seat 

hemselves.) 

.  Cal.    My  friend,  I  conjure  you. — 
Ver,    Listen  to  me.— 

Cal,  (To  Sacco.)  What  are  we  to  expect, 
>acco  ? 

Ver,    Genoese,  you  both  know  the  antiquity 
f  my  family.    Your  ancestors  were  vassals  to  my 
]>wn.    My  forefathers  fought  the  battles  of  the 
vol.  ii.)  M 


26 


nr.  sc<v 


state,  their  wives  were  patterns  of  virtue  to  tt 
sex.   Honor  was  our  sole  inheritance,  descendh 
unspotted  from  the  father  to  the  son — Can 
one  deny  it? 
Succo.  No. 

Cal.    No  one,  by  the  God  of  Heaven  ! 

Ver.    I  am  the  last  of  my  family.    My  wil 
has  long  been  dead.    This  daughter  is  all  she  ^_ 
me.    You  are  witnesses,  my  friends,  how  I  have 
brought  her  up. — Can  any  one  accuse  me  of  ner 

Cal.  No.  Your  daughter  is  a  bright  example 
to  our  females. — 

Ver.  I  am  old,  my  friends.  On  this  my 
daughter  all  my  hopes  were  placed.  Sould  I  los* 
her,  my  race  becomes  extinct. — ( After  a  pause, 
with  a  solemn  voice.)  I  have  lost  her — My  family 
is  dishonor'd. 

Sacco  and  Calcagno.    Forbid  it  Heaven  ! 

(Bertha,  on  the  couch,  appears  much  affected.) 

Ver.  No — Despair  not,  daughter  !  These  mei) 
are  just  and  brave — If  they  feel  thy  wrongs,  they 
will  expiate  them  with  blood.  Be  not  astonished, 
friends. — He  who  tramples  upon  Genoa,  may 
easily  overcome  a  helpless  female. 

Sacco  and  Calcagno.  (Starting  up  with  great  emo.- 
tion.J    Gianettino  Doria! 

Rer.  (With  a  shriek,  seeing  Bourgognino  eft 
ter.J  Cover  me,  walls,  beneath  your  ruins !— * 
My  Scipio  ! 

Scene  XII— Bourgognino — the  Former. 

Bourg.  Rejoice,  my  love  1  I  bring  good  tidings. 
Noble  Verrina,  I  come  to  lay  my  dearest  hopes 
at  your  disposal.  I  have  long  loved  your  daugh- 
ter, but  never  dared  to  ask  her  hand,  because  my 
whole  fortune  was  entrusted  to  the  treacherous 
sea.   My  ships  have  just  now  reached  the  harbour 


Act  I. 


FIE  SCO. 


87 


laden  with  valuable  cargoes — Now  I  am  rich — Be- 
stow your  Bertha  on  me — I'll  make  her  happy. 

Ver.  What,  youth !  Wouldst  thou  mix  thy 
heart's  pure  tide  with  a  polluted  stream  ? 

Bourg.  ( Claps  his  hand  to  his  sword,  but  sud- 
denly draws  it  back.)  'Twas  her  father,  that  said  it. 

Ver.  No— every  rascal  in  Italy  will  say  it.  Are 
you  contented  with  the  leavings  of  other  men's 
repasts  ? 

Bourg.    Old  man,  do  not  make  me  desperate  ! 
Cal.    Bourgognino  1  he  speaks  the  truth. 
Bourg.     (Enraged,  rushing  towards  Bertha.) 
The  truth  !  Has  the  girl  then  mocked  me  ? 
I    Cal.    Restrain  your  passion.    The  girl  is  spot- 
less as  an  angel. 

Bourg.  By  my  soul's  happiness,  I  comprehend 
ilk  not! — The  girl  is  spotless  yet  dishonored?— 
■They  look  in  silence  on  each  other.  Some  horrid 
dcrime  hangs  on  their  trembling  tongues. — I  con- 
tjjure  you,  friends,  mock  not  my  reason.  Is  she 
pure  ?  Is  she  truly  so  ?  Who  answers  for  her? 
Ver.    My  child  is  guiltless. 

Bourg.  What  1 — Violence  ! — ( Snatches  the  sword 
\\from  the  ground.)   Be  all  the  sins  of  earth  upon 
my  head,  if  I  avenge  her  not ! — Where  is  the 
'  spoiler  ? 

-  Ver.  Seek  him,  in  the  plunderer  of  Genoa —  I 
\\f  He  walks  up  and  down  the  room  in  deep  thought y 
when  stops — ) 

[(If  rightly  I  can  trace  thy  counsels,  O  eternal  Pro- 
vidence !  it  is  thy  will  to  make  my  daughter  the 
instrument  of  Genoa's  deliverance.    ( Approaching 
her  slowly,  takes  the  mourning  crape  from  his  arm, 
\\and proceeds  in  a  solemn  manner.)  Before  the  heart's 
i  blood  of  Doria  shall  wash  away  this  foul  stain  from 
thy  honor,  no  beam  of  day  light  shall  shine  upon 
[  these  cheeks.    Till  then  ( throwing  the  crape  over 
hher )   be  blind!    (A  pause— the   rest  look  upon 
Ifiim  with  silent  astonishment,  he  continues  solemn- 


28  fiesco.  Act  I, 

(y,  his  hand  upon  Bertha's  head.)  Cursed  be 
the  air,  that  shall  breathe  on  thee  !  Cursed  every 
human  step,  that  shall  come  to  sooth  thy  misery  ! 
— Down,  into  the  lowest  vault  beneath  my  house ! 
There  whine,  and  cry  aloud!  (pausing  with  in- 
ward  horror. )  Be  thy  life  painful  as  tortures  of 
the  writhing  worm — agonising  as  the  stubborn 
conflict  between  existence  and  annihilation. — This 
curse  lie  on  thee,  till  Gianettino  shall  have  heaved 
forth  his  dying  breath.  If  he  escape  his  punish- 
ment, then  may'st  thou  drag  thy  load  of  misery 
throughout  the  endless  circle  of  eternity  1 
{A  deep  silence — horror  is  marked  on  the  counten- 
ances of  all  present. — Verrina  casts  a  scrutinis- 
ing look  at  each  of  them.) 

Bourg.  Inhuman  father  !  What  is  it  thou  hast 
done  ?  Why  pour  fourth  this  horrible  and  mon- 
strous curse  against  thy  guiltless  daughter? 

Ver.  Youth,  thou  say'st  true — it  is  most  hor- 
rible. Now,  which  of  you  will  stand  forth  and 
speak  of  patience  and  delay  ?  My  daughter's  fate 
is  linked  with  that  of  Genoa.  I  am  no  more  a 
father,  but  a  citizen.  And  who  among  us  is  so 
much  a  coward,  to  hesitate  in  the  salvation  of  his 
country,  when  this  poor  guiltless  being  must  pay 
for  his  timidity  with  endless  sufferings  ?  By  hea- 
vens, 'twas  not  a  madman's  speech.  I've  sworn 
an  oath,  and  till  Doria  feel  the  agonies  of  death, 
I  cannot  pity  my  own  child.  No — not  if,  like  an 
executioner,  I  should  invent  unheard  of  torments 
for  her,  or  with  my  own  hands  tear  her  innocent 
frame  to  pieces  on  the  barbarous  rack.  You  shud- 
der— you  stare  me  in  the  face  as  pale  as  ghosts. 
Once  more,  Scipio — I  keep  her  as  an  hostage  for 
the  tyrant's  death.  Upon  this  precious  thread  do 
I  suspend  thy  duty,  my  own,  and  yours  ( to  Sac- 
co  and  Calcagno.)  The  tyrant  of  Genoa  must 
fall,  or  Bertha  must  despair — I  do  not  retract* 


to  i. 


FIESCO. 


at 


Bourg.  {Throwing  himself  at  Bertha's/^.) 
Ie  shall  fall—shall  fall  a  vi&im  of  Genoa.  I  will 
is  surely  plunge  this  sword  into  Doria's  heart,  as 
jpon  thy  lips  I  will  imprint  the  bridal  kiss.  (Rises.) 

Ver.  Ye  couple,  the  first  that  ever  owed  their 
anion  to  the  furies,  join  hands! — Wilt  thou  plunge 
thy  sword  into  Doria's  heart  I — Take  her — she  is 
thine. 

.Cat.   (Kneeling.)  Here  another  citizen  of  Genoa, 
kneels  down,  and  lays  his  faithful  sword  before 
the  feet  of  innocence*    As  surely  may  Calcagno 
find  the  way  to  heaven,  as  this  steel  shall  find  its 
way  to  Gianettino's  bosom.  (Rises.) 
i    Sacco.    (Kneeling.)   Last,  but  not  least  deter- 
mined,  Raffaelle  Sacco  kneels.    If  this  bright 
steel  help  not  to  unlock  the  prison  doors  of  Ber- 
itha,  may 'st  thou,  my  Saviour,  shut  thy  ear  against 
'my  dying  prayers  !  (Rises*) 

Ver.  Through  me  Genoa  thanks  you.  Now 
go  my  daughter — Rejoice,  to  be  the  mighty  sa- 
crifice for  thy  country  !: 

Bourg.  (Embracing  her,  as  she  is  departing*  Go  1 
confide  in  God — and  Bourgognino. — The  same 
day  shall  give  freedom  to  Bertha,  and  to  Genoa. 

(Bertha  retires* 

Scene  XIII. — The  Former — without  Bertha., 

Cat.  Genoese,  before  we  take  another  step,, 
one  word — 

Ver*    I  guess,  what  thou  would'st  say. 

Cal,    Will  four  patriots  alone  be  sufficient  to 
fdestroy  this  mighty  Hydra?  Shall  we  not  stir  up* 
the  people  to  rebellion,  or  dr-aw  the  nobles  in  to 
i  join  our  party  ? 

Ver*  I  understand  thee.  Now  hear  my  advice 
— I  have  engaged  a  painter,  who  has  been  long 
exerting  all  his  skill,  to  paint  the  fall  of  Appius 
Claudius.    That  art  Fiesco  loves. to  enthusiasm, 

M-  2 


30 


FIESCO. 


Act 


and  oft  delights  to  elevate  his  mind  by  viewing  i 
sublime  productions.  We  will  send  this  pictu 
to  his  house,  and  will  be  present  when  he  co 
templates  it.  Perhaps  the  sight  may  rouse 
spirit. — Perhaps — 

Bourg.    Speak  not  of  him. — Let  us  increase  t 
clanger,  and  not  the  means  of  help.   So  valor  bid 
I  have  long  felt  an  impulse  at  my  heart,  strong 
than  I  knew  how  to  satisfy.    Now — now  I  kn 
what  presses  on  me — a  Tyrant  I  (The  scene  clos 


E5TD   OF   THE   FIRST  ACT* 


Mji7.  1IE5C0.  31 

ACT  II. 

•CENE  I. — An  antichamber  in  the  palace  ct/Tiesco* 
Leonora  and  Arabella. 

Ara.  No,  certainly.  You  were  mistaken  :  your 
yes  were  blinded  by  jealousy. 

Leo.  It  was  the  living  image  of  Julia.  Do 
lot  endeavour  to  persuade  me  otherwise.  My 
iclure  used  to  be  suspended  by  a  sky-blue  riband  : 
;  lis  was  flame-coloured — My  doom  is  fixM  Lrre- 
Qcably. 

Scene  II. —  The  Former  and  Julia. 

Julia.    The  Count  offered  me  his  palace  to  see 
le  procession  to  the  senate-house.    The  time 
ill  be  tedious.    You  will  entertain  me,  Madam, 
hile  the  chocolate  is  preparing. 
Arabella  goes  out,  and  returns  soon  afterward.) 

Leo.  Do  you  wish,  that  I  should  invite  comp- 
any to  meet  you  ? 

Julia.  Ridiculous  !  As  if  I  should  come  hi- 
iier  in  search  of  company.  You  will  endeavour 
>  amuse  me,  Madam. — If  you  can  do  that,  I  shall 
ave  lost  nothing. 

Ara.  Your  splendid  dress  alone  will  be  the 
>ser.  Only  think,  how  cruel  'tis  to  deprive  the 
iger  eyes  of  our  young  beaus  of  such  a  treat  1 
.h  i  and  the  glitter  of  your  sparkling  jewels,  on 
hich  it  almost  wounds  the  sight  to  look.  Good 
ravens  1  You  seem  to  have  plundered  the  whole 
:ean  of  its  pearls. 

Julia.  ( Before  a  glass.)  You  are  surprised  at 
lat,  Madam  !  But  hark  ye,  Madam  :  pray  has 
our  mistress  also  hired  your  tongue  ?  Countess^ 
is  fine,  indeed,  to  permit  your  servants  thus  to 
jldress  your  guests. 


32 


fiesco. 


Act 


Leo.    'Tis  my  misfortune,  Signora,  that 
want  of  spirits  prevents  me  from  enjoying  tl 
pleasure  of  your  company. 

Julia.    That's  an  ugly  fault.    To  be  dull 
spiritless — Be  active,  sprightly,  witty  !  Yours 
not  the  way  to  attach  your  husband  to  you. 

Leo.  I  know  but  one  way,  Countess.  Yoi 
perhaps  may  be  more  efficacious  in  exciting  syi 
pathy. 

Julia.    How  you  dress,  Madam  I  For  shai 
Pay  more  attention  to  your  appearance  !  Hi 
recourse  to  art,  where  nature  is  unkind.  ll 
colour  on  those   cheeks  winch  look  so  pale  with 
spleen.    Poor  creature  !  Your  countenance  will 
never  find  an  admirer. 

Leo.  {To  Arabella.)  Congratulate  me,  girl. 
It  is  impossible  I  can  have  lost  Fiesco  ;  or  if  I 
have,  the  loss  must  sure  be  trilling.  {The  cho- 
colate is  brought,  Arabella  pours  it  out. J 

Julia.  Do  you  talk  of  losing  Fiesco  ?  GajM 
God  !  How  could  you  ever  conceive  the  vain  idea1 
of  possessing  him  ?  Why,  my  child,  aspire  toL 
such  a  height  ? — A  height,  where  you  cannot  but 
be  seen,  and  must  be  compared  with  others.  In- 
deed, my  dear,  he  was  a  scoundrel  or  a  block- 
head, who  joined  you  with  Fiesco.  (Taking  het 
hand  with  a  look  of  compasion. )  Poor  soul  1  The 
man,  who  mixes  with  the  assemblies  of  fashiona- 
ble life,  could  never  be  your  match.  (She  takes 
a  dish  of  chocolate.  J 

Leo.  {Smiling  at  Arabella.)  If  he  were,  he 
would  not  wish  to  mix  with  such  assemblies. 

Julia.  The  Count  is  handsome,  fashionaMHI 
elegant.  He  was  so  fortunate,  as  to  form  con' 
nexions  with  people  of  rank.  The  Count  is  live- 
ly, and  high  spirited. — Suppose,  he  comes  home 
warm  from  the  midst  of  a  iashionable  circle, 
what  does  he  meet?  His  wife  receives  him  witfc 


ct  II. 


riEsco. 


35 


vulgar  tenderness  ;  damps  his  fire  with  a  chil- 
ng  kiss,  and  measures  out  her  attentions  to  him 
pith  a  niggardly  economy.  Poor  husband  !  Here, 
blooming  beauty  smiles  upon  him— Mere,  he  is 
isgusted  by  a  peevish  sensibility.  Signora,  Sig- 
ora,  for  God's  sake,  consider,  if  he  have  not 
)St  his  understanding,  what  will  he  choose  ? — 

:  Leo.    You,  Madam — If  he  have  lost  it. 

Julia.    Good  1  This  sting    shall  return  into 
our  own  bosom.  Tremble  for  your  mockery  ! 

.  iut  before  you  tremble— blush  ! 

I  Leo.  Do  you  then  know,  what  it  is  to  blush, 
ignora  ?  But,  why  not  ?  'Tis  a  toilet-trick. 
Julia.  Oh,  see  !  This  poor  creature  must  be  pro- 
ofed, if  one  would  draw  from  her  a  spark  of  wit. 
Veil — -Let  it  pass,  this  time.  Madam,  I  only 
poke  in  jest.    Give  me  your  hand,  in  token  of 

Reconciliation. 

Leo.  Countess,  my  anger  ne'er  shall  trouble  you. 
Julia.    That's  generous  indeed.    I  would  en- 
eavour  to  imitate  your  conduct.    Countess,  do 
ou  not   think  I  must  love  that  person,  whose 
mage  I  bear  constantly  about  me  ? 

I  Leo.    What  do  you  say  ?— At  least  it  seems  a 

■  ioubtful  proof. 
Julia.    I  think  so  too.  The  heart  needs  not 

i  .ie  assistance  of  the  senses  ;  and  real  sentiment 
eeks  not  to  strengthen  itself  by  outward  orna- 

[Iftent. 

I  Leo.  Heavens  !  Where  did  you  learn  such  a 
ruth  ? 

I  Julia.  'Twas  in  mere  compassion  that  I  spoke 
t;.  for  observe,  Madam,  the  reverse  is  no  less 
ertain.  Such  is  Fiesco's  love  for  you— {Gives  her 
he  picture,  laughing  maliciously.) 

I  Leo.    My  picture  1  Given   to  you  !  —Cruel 

;  'iesco  ! — . 


34  FIESCO.  j 

Julia,  Have  I  retaliated  ?  Have  I  ?  Now, 
am,  have  you  any  other  sting  to  wound  me  wit 
—Be  comforted  :  he  gave  me  the  picture  in 
of  madness.        \_Exeunt  Julia  and  Arabell, 

Scene  III. — Leonora,  Calcagno  entering, 

Cal,    Did  not  the  Countess  Imperiali  depe 
anger,  Madam  ? 

Leo,    No — This  is  unheard  of  cruelty. 

Cal,    Heaven  and  earth  ! — Do  I  behold  yoi 
tears  ! 

Leo,    Thou  art  a  friend  of  my  inhuman — Al 
 Leave  my  sight  

Cal,     Whom  do  you  call  inhuman  ?  1 

affright  me  

Leo,    My  husband — Is  he  not  so  ? 

Cal,    What  do  I  hear  !— 

Leo,  Tis  but  a  piece  of  villany,  comraoi 
enough  among  your  sex — 

Cal,  {Grasping  her  hand,)  Lady,  I  have  a  heat 
for  weeping  virtue. 

Leo,  You  are  a  man — Your  heart  is  not  forme 

Cal,  For  you  alone — Yours  only — Would 
that  you  knew  how  much,  how  truly  yours  

Leo,    Man,  thou    art    untrue  Thy  word 

would  be  refuted  by  thy  actions  

Cal,    I  swear  to  you  

Leo,  A  false  oath  Cease  !  The  per 

juries  of  men  are  so  innumerable,  'twould  tin 
the  pen  of  the  recording  angel  to  write  then 
clown.  If  their  violated  oaths  were  turned  intoai 
many  devils,  they  might  storm  heaven  itself 
and  lead  away  the  angels  of  light  as  captives. 

Cal.  Nay,  Madam,  your  anger  makes  ym 
unjust.  Is  the  whole  sex  to  ans  wer  for  the  crinv 
of  one  ? 

Leo,  I  tell  thee,  in  that  one  was  centred  a] 
my  affection  for  the  sex.  In  him  I  will  detest  then 
ail. 


ct  IL 


yiEsco. 


35 


Ceil.   Countess,  you  once  bestowed  your  hand 
niss.    Would  you  again  make  trial  ;  I  know 
lie,  who  would  deserve  it  better. 
Leo.    The  limits  of  creation  cannot  bound  your 
ishoods.    I'll  hear  thee  no  more. 
CaL    Oh  that  you  would  retract  this  cruel  sen- 
uce  in  my  arms  I 
Leo.    Speak  out — In  thy  arms  I 
CaL    In  my  arms,  which  open  themselves  to 
ceive  a  forsaken  woman,  and  to  console  her  for 
ie  love  she  has  lost. 
Leo.    Love  ! 

CaL     ( Kneeling  before  her.)  Yes,  I  have  said 

j — Love,  Madam  Life  and  death  lie  on  your 

ngue.  To  call  my  passion  criminal,  would  be 
t  break  down  the  boundaries  of  vice  and  virtue, 
jd  to  confound  together  heaven  and  hell  in  one 
Ineral  condemnation. 

Leo*    Hypocrite  !  Was  that  the  object  of  thy 
ser  compassion  ?     This  attitude  at  once  pro- 
lims  thee  a  traitor  to  friendship,  and  to  love, 
tgone,  for  ever  from  my  eyes  !— Detested  sex  ! 
11  now  I  thought  the  only  victim  of  your  snares 
s  woman ;  nor  ever  suspected,  that  to  each 
ler  you  were  so  false,  and  faithless. 
CaL    ( Rising,  confounded. )  Countess ! 
Leo.    Was  it  not  enough  to  break  the  sacred 
ill  of  confidence  ?  but  even  on  the  unsullied 
rror  of  virtue,  this  hypocrite  breathes  pesti- 
ce,  and  would  seduce  my  innocence  to  perjury. 
Cal.  Perjury,  Madam,  you  cannot  be  guilty  of. 
[Leo.    I  understand  thee— ^thou  thoughtest  my 
unded  pride  would  plead  in  thy  behalf.  Thou 
1st  not  know  that  she,  who  loves  Fiesco,  feels 
sn  the  pang  that  rends  her  heart,  ennobling, 
gone  !  Fiesco's  perfidy  will  not  make  Calcagno 
e  in  my  esteem— but— -will  debase  humanity. 

(Exit)  hastily* 


3-3 


FIESC0. 


Act 


Cal.  {Stands  as  if  thunderstruck — looks  after 
. — then  striking  his  forehead) — Fool  that  I  am. 

Scene  IV. — The  Moor  and  Fiesco. 

Fies,    Who  was  it  that  just  now  departed  ? 

Moor.    The  Marquis  Calcagno. 

Fies.    This  handkerchief  was  left  upon  the 
fa.    My  wife  has  been  here. 

Moor.    I  met  her  this  moment  in  great  agi 
tion. 

Fies.  This  handkerchief  is  moist — Galea 
here  ?  And  Leonora  agitated  ? — This  even 
thou  must  learn,  what  has  happened. 

Moor.    Miss  Bella  likes  to  hear,  that  she 
fair.    She  will  inform  me. 

Fies.    Well — Thirty  hours  are  past — Hast  t 
executed  my  commission  ? 

Moor.    Thoroughly,  my  Lord. 

Fies*    Then  tell  me,  how  they  talk  of  Do 
and  of  the  government. 

Moor.  Oh,  most  vilely.  The  very  name  o 
Doria  shakes  them  like  an  ague-fit.  Gianettin< 
is  as  hateful  to  them  as  death  itself — there': 
nought  but  murmuring.  They  say,  the  Frencl 
have  been  the  rats  of  Genoa,  the  cat  Doria  ha: 
eaten  them,  and  now  is  going  to  feast  upon  th< 
mice. 

Fies*    That  may  perhaps  be  true.  But  do  thej 

not  know  of  any  dog  against  that  cat  ? 

Moor.  The  town  was  murmuring  much  of  i 
certain — poh — I  have  forgot  the  name. 

Fies.  Blockhead  1  That  name  is  as  easy  to  bf 
remembered,  as  'twould  be  difficult  to  obtain  it 
Has  Genoa  more  such  names  than  one  ? 

Moor.  No — It  cannot  have  two  Counts  of  La 
vagna. 

Fies.  That  is  something — And  what  do  the; 
whisper  about  my  present  way  of  living  .? 


4ct  IL 


FIESCO. 


37 


I  Moor.  Hear  pie,  Count  of  Lavagna  !  Genoa 
i  bust  think  highly  of  you.    They  cannot  imagine, 

yky  a  descendant  of  the  first  family — with  such 

.dents  and  genius — full  of  spirit  and  popularity— 

taster  of  four  millions — his  veins  enrich'd  with 
|  rincely  blood — a  nobleman  like  Fiesco,  whom, 

t  the  first  call,  all  hearts  would  fly  to  meet — 
Fies.    (Turns  away  contemptuously*)    To  hear 

uch  things  from  such  a  scoundrel  1 
Moor.    Many  lamented,  that  the  chief  of  Ge- 

oa  should  slumber  over  the  ruin  of  his  country. 

aid  many  sneered.    Most  men  condemned  you. 

.11  bewailed  the  state,  which  thus  had  lost  you. 
L  Jesuit  pretended  to  have  smelt  out  the  fox, 
Ijiat  lay  concealed  beneath  the  garb  of  quietness. 
I  Fies.    One  fox  smells  out  another. — What  say 

ley  to  my  passion  for  the  Countess  Imperiali  ? 
Moor.    What  I  would  rather  be  excused  from 
\  ppeating. 

Fies.  Out  with  it — The  bolder,  the  more  wel- 
come. 

I  Moor.  'Tis  not  a  murmur.  At  all  the  coffee- 
ouses,  billiard-tables,  hotels,  and  public  walks — 
i  the  market-place,  at  the  Exchange,  they  pro* 

li.aim  aloud — 
Fies.    What  ? — I  command  thee. 

I  Moor.    Retreating.    That  you  are  a  fool. 
Fies.    Well,  take  this  sequin  for  these  tidings. 

j'ow  have  I  put  on  the  fool's  cap.    How  did  the 

Manufacturers  receive  my  presents  ? 
Moor.    Why,  Mr.  Fool,  they  looked  like  poor 

> laves — 

Fies.    Fool  ? — Fellow,  art  thou  mad  ? 
Moor.    Pardon!  I  had  a  mind  for  a 'few  more 
[jquins. 

\  Fies.  (Laughing,  gives  him  another  sequin.) 
vTell — "Like  poor  knaves." 

roL,  ii.)  9  N 


FIESCO. 


Moor,    Who  receive  pardon  at  the  very  bl( 
They  are  your's,  both  soul  and  body. 

Fies.     I'm  glad  of  it.     They  turn  the  s< 
among  the  populace  of  Genoa. 

Moor.  What  a  scene  it  was  !  Zounds  !  I 
most  acquired  a  relish  for  benevolence.  Tl 
caught  me  round  the  neck  like  madmen, 
very  girls  seemed  in  love  with  my  black  vise 
that's  as  ill-omen'd  as  the  moon  in  an  eclij 
Cold  thought  I,  is  omnipotent  :  it  makes  evei 
Moor  look  fair. 

Fies.    Thy  thought  was  better,  than  the 
that  gave  it  birth.    These  words  are  favours 
but  do  they  bespeak  actions  of  equal  import? 

Moor.  Yes — As  the  murmuring  of  the  distj 
thunder  foretells  the  approaching  storm, 
people  lay  their  heads  together— they  collect 
parties — break  off  their  talk  whene'er  a  strangei 
passes  by — Throughout  Genoa  reigns  a  gloomj 
silence — This  discontent  hangs  like  a  threatening 
tempest,  over  the  republic — It  only  wants  a  wind 
then  hail  and  lightning  will  burst  forth. 

Fies,  Hush — hark  !— ■  What  is  that  confusec 
noise  ? 

Moor.  ( Going  to  the  window )  It  is  the  tu- 
mult of  the  crowd  returning  from  the  senate 

house. 

Fies,  To-day  is  the  election  of  a  procurator- 
Order  my  carriage  !  It  is  impossible,  that  fll 
sitting  should  be  over.  I'll  go  thither — It  is  im 
possible  it  should  be  over,  if  things  went  right 
Bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak — where  is  my  gold 
en  chain  ? 

Moor.    Sir,  I  have  stolen  and  pawned  it. 
Fies,    That  I  am  glad  tb  hear. 
Moor.    But,  how  !  Are  there  no  more  sequin; 

for  me  ? 

fies.    No — You  forgot  the  cloak. 


(ct  II.  fie sco.  39 

Moor,  Ah !  I  was  wrong  in  pointing  out  the 
lief. 

Fies,  The  tumult  comes  nearer.  Hark!  'Tis 
3t  the  sound  of  approbation.  Quick  ! — Unlock 
ie  gates — I  guess  the  matter.  Doria  has  been 
.sh.  The  state  already  trembles  on  an  unsteady 
dance.   There  has  surely  been  some  disturbance 

the  senate-house. 

Moor.  (At  the  window.)  What's  here  I  They're 
uning  down  the  street  of  Balbi — A  crowd  of  ma- 
f  thousands — the  halberds  glitter — Ah,  swords 
o  ! — Halloo  ! — Senators  !  They  come  this  way. 

Fies.  Sedition  is  on  foot.  Hasten  amongst 
em — Mention  my  name — Persuade  them  to 
ime  hither.  (Exit  Moon  hastily. )  What,  rea- 
n,  labouring  like  a  careful  ant,  with  difficulty 
rapes  together,  the  wind  of  accident  collects  in 
:ie  short  moment. 

:ene    V. — Fiesco,    Zenturione,  Zibo,  and 
Asserato  rush ing  in. 

Zibo.  Count,  impute  it  to  our  confusion  that 
m  enter  thus  unannounced. 

m  Zen.    I  have  been  mortally  affronted,  by  the 
Euke's  nephew,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  senate. 
jl^/M.    Doria,  then,  has  soiled  the  golden  book 
■which  each  noble  Genoese  is  a  leaf. 
\\Zent.    Therefore  come  we  hither — The  whole 

pbility  is  insulted  in  me  The  whole  nobility 

Ifust  share  in  my    revenge —  In  the   defence  of 
ny  own  honor  1  should  not  need  assistance. 
llZ/fo.  The  whole  nobility  is  in  him  provoked — 
line  whole  nobility  must  spit  forth  flames. 

Asser.    The  rights  of  the  nation  are  trampled 
ILder  foot — The  liberty  of  the  republic  has  re- 
lived a  deadly  blow. 
I \Fies.  You  raise  my  expectation. 
IjZifo.    He  was  the  twenty-ninth  among  the 
]i  *0 


40 


FIESCO. 


electing  senators,  and  had  drawn  forth  a  gol 
ball  to  vote  for  the  procurator — Of  the  eight 
twenty  votes  collected,  fourteen  were  for  me, 
as  many  for  Lomellino — His  and  Doria's  w 
still  wanting — 

Zent.     Wanting  1  I  gave  my  vote  for  Zil 
Doria — Think  of  the  wound  inflicled  on  my 
nor- — Doria — 

Asser. — Such  a  thing  was  never  heard  of,  si 
the  sea  washed  the  Avails  of  Genoa. 

Zent. — Doria  drew  a  sword,  which  he  had  c 
cealed  under  a  scarlet  cloak — Stuck  it  thro 
ray  vote — called  to  the  assembly — 

Zibo.  "  Senators,  'tis  good  for  nothing,  'tis 
pierced  through — Lomellino  is  Procurator." 

Zent.  "Lomellino  is  Procurator."  And  threw 
his  sword  upon  the  table. 

Asser.    And  called  out,  "  'Tis  good  for  not 
ing" — and  threw  his  sword  upon  the  table. 

lies.     {After  a  pause.)  On   what  are  you 
solved  ? 

Zent.    The  republic  is  wounded  to  its  v 
heart — On  what  are  we  resolved  ? 

Fies.  Zenturione,  rushes  may  be  broken  b 
breath,  the  oak  requires  a  storm.  I  ask,  onvv 
you  are  resolved  ? 

Zibo.  Methinks  the  question  should  be,  On 
what  does  Genoa  resolve  \ 

Fies.  Genoa!  Genoa!  name  it  not — 'Tis  brit- 
tle, and  will  crack,  where'er  you  touch  it.  Do 
you  reckon  on  the  nobles  ?  Perhaps,  because 
they  put  on  grave  faces — look  mysterious,  when 
state  affairs  are  mentioned — Talk  not  of  them  ! 
Their  heroism  is  stifled  among  the  bales  of  their 
Levantine  merchandise.  Their  souls  hover 
anxiously  about  their  India  fleet. 

Zent.  Learn  to 'esteem  our  nobles  more  just- 
ly. Scarcely  was  Doria's  haughty  action  done, 


3 


Act  If. 


FIKSCQ. 


41 


when  hundreds  of  them  rushed  into  the  street, 
;  tearing  their  garments — The  senate  was  dis- 
pers'd— 

Fies.  Like  frighted  pigeons,  when  the  vulture 
darts  upon  the  dove-cote. 

Zcnt,  No — like  powder-barrels,  when  a  match 
falls  on  them. 

Zibo,  The  people  are  enraged.  What  may 
we  not  expect  from  the  fury  of  the  wounded  boar  ! 

Fies.  {Laughing.)  The  blind,  unwieldy  mon- 
ster, which  at  lirst  rattles  its  heavy  bones,  threat- 
ening with  gaping  jaws,  to  devour  the  high  and 
low,  the  near  and  distant,  at  last,  Genoese,  stum- 
bles at  a  thread.  No  more  !  the  epoch  of  the  mas- 
ters of  the  sea  is  past.  Genoa  is  sunk  beneath  the 
splendor  of  its  name.  Its  state  is  such  as  once 
was  Rome's,  when,  like  a  tennis-ball,  she  leapt 
into  the  racket  of  young  Octavius.  Genoa  can  be 
free  no  longer.  Genoa  must  be  foster'd  by  a 
monarch.  Therefore  do  homage  to  the  mad- 
brain'd  Gianettino 

Zent.  Yes — when  the  contending  elements  are 
reconciled,  and  when  the  north  pole  meets  the 
south — Come,  friends  ! 

Fies.  Stay — Stay — Upon  what  project  are  you 
brooding,  Zibo  ? 

Zibo.    On  nothing- 

Fies.  (Leading  them  to  a  statue.)  Look  at  this 
figure. 

Zent.  It  is  the  Florentine  Venus.  Why 
point  to  her  ? 

Fies.    At  least,  she  pleases  you. 
I  Zibo.    Undoubtedly,  or  we  should  be  but  poor 
italians.    But  why  this  question  now  ? 
';  Fies.    Travel  through  all  the  countries  of  the 
$lobe,  and  seek,  among  the  living  models,  for 
hat,  which  is  most  happily  executed,  in  which. 


42 


FIKSCO. 


Act 


the  charms  of  this  imagined   Venus  are 
united — 

Zibo.    Then  we  perhaps  may  take  her  for  o 
reward  ? 

Fies.    Then  your  search  will  have  convicte 
Fancy  of  deceit — 

Zent.    And  what  shall  we  have  gain'd  ? 

Fies,    Gain'd  ? — The  decision  of  the  long  p 
tracted  contest  between  Art  and  Nature. 

Zent.    And  what  then  ? 

Fies.    Then?  Then?  (laughing.)    Then  y 
will  have  forgotten  to  observe  the  fall  of  Genoa 
liberty.  (Exeunt  all  but  Fiesc 

Scene  VI. — Fiesco  alone. 

(Tlie  noise  without  increases.) 
Fies.    'Tis  well — 'tis  well — The  straw  of  t 
republic  has  cought  fire.    The  flames  have  sei 
ed  already  on  palaces  and  towers.    Let  it  go  on 
Let  the  blaze  be  general  !  Let  the  tempestuo 
wind  spread  wide  the  conflagration  ! 

Scene  VII. — Fiesco — Moor,  entering  in  hasten 

Moor.    Crowds  upon  crowds  1 

Fies.  Throw  open  wide  the  gates.  Let  allj 
that  choose  it,  enter — 

Moor.  Republicans  !  Republicans  indeed  I 
They  drag  their  liberty  along  panting  like  beasts 
of  burden,  beneath  the  yoke  of  their  magnificent 
nobility. 

Fies.  Fools  1  Who  believe  Fiesco  of  Lavagna 
will  carry  on,  what  Fiesco  of  Lavagna  did  not 
begin.  The  tumult  comes  opportunely  ;  but  the 
conspiracy  must  be  my  own.  They  are  rushing 
hither — 

Moor.  (Going  out.)  Halloo  I  You  beat  the 
walls  down,  there — (The  people  rush  in — The 
doors  broken  down. ) 


ctll. 


FIESCO. 


43 


Scene  VIII. — Fiesco — twelve  Artisans. 

All  art.  Vengeance  on  Doria  I  Vengeance 
i  Gianettino  ! 

Pies.  Peace,  my  countrymen  !  Your  waiting 
nis  upon  me  bespeaks  the  warmth  of  your  affec- 
on  ;  but  forbear  these  harsh  expressions  I 

All.  Down  with  the  Dorias  !  Down  with  them 
oth  the  uncle,  and  the  nephew  ! 

Fits,  (counting  them  with  a  smile. J  Twelve  is  a 
lighty  force  ! 

.  Some  of  them.  These  Dorias  must  away— The 
itate  must  be  reformed. 
First    art.    To  throw  our  magistrates  down 
tairs  ! — The  magistrates  ! 

Second  art.  Think,  Count  Lavagna, — down 
tairs,  when  they  opposed  him  in  the  election — 

All.  It  must  not  be  endured— It  shall  not  be 
ndured. 

Third  art.    To  take  a  sword  into  the  senate  ! 
First  art.    A  sword — The  sign  of  war — Into 
lie  chamber  of  peace — 

■  Second  art.  To  come  into  the  senate  drest  in 
carlet  !  Not  like  the  other  senators,  in  black. 

First  art.    To  drive  through  our  capital  with 
Eight  horses  ! 
All.    A  tyrant  ! — A  traitor  to  the  country  and 
le  government  ! 

Second  art.  To  hire  two  hundred  Germans 
'omthe  emperor,  for  his  body-guard  ! 

First  art.  To  bring  foreigners  in  arms  against 
le  natives — Germans  against  Italians— Soldiers 
eside  the  laws  ! 

All.  'Tis  treason — 'tis  a  plot  against  the  liber- 
r  of  Genoa. 

First  art.  To  have  the  arms  of  the  republic 
ainted  on  his  coach  I 

Second  art.  The  statue  of  Andreas  placed  in 
he  centre  of  the  senate-house  1 


44  fie  sco.  Act 

All.    Dash  them  to  pieces — Both  the  figure 

and  the  man — 

Fies.    Citizens  of  Genoa,  why  this  to  me  ? 

First  art.    You  shall  not  suffer  it.    You  si 
keep  him  clown. 

Second  art.    You  are  a  wise  man,  and  shall 
suffer  it.  You  shall  direct  us  by  your  counsel. 

First  art.    You  are  a  better  nobleman.  Y< 
shall  chastise  them  and  curb  their  insolence. 

Fies.     You    confidence  is  flattering.  Can 
merit  it  by  deeds  ? 

All.    Strike !  Down  with   the  tyrant  !  I 
ns  free  ! 

Fies.    But — Will  you  hear  me  ? — 

Some.    Speak,  Count ! 

Fies.  Genoese,  the  empire  of  the  animals  was 
once  thrown  into  confusion ;  parties  struggled 
with  parties ;  till  at  last  a  bull-dog  seized  tl 
throne.  He,  accustomed  to  drive  the  cattle 
the  knife  of  the  butcher,  ranged  in  a  savage  mi 
ner  through  the  state.  He  bark'd,  he  bit,  anc 
gnawed  his  subjects'  bones.  The  nation  mur- 
mured :  the  boldest  joined  together,  and  killec 
the  princely  monster.  Now,  a  general  assembly 
was  held  to  decide  upon  the  important  question, 
j  which  form  of  government  was  best.  There  weft 
three  different  opinions.  Genoese,  what  would  be 
'  your  decision  £ 

First  art.    For  the  people — 
^*  All.    For  the  people — 

Fies.  The  people  gained  the  question.  The 
government  was  democratical  :  each  citizen  had 
a  vote,  and  every  thing  was  submitted  to  a  ma- 
jority. But  a  few  weeks  past,  ere  Man  declared 
war  against  the  new  republic.  The  state  assem- 
bled— horse,  lion,  tiger,  bear,  elephant,  and 
rhinoceros,  stepped  forth  and  roared  aloud,  To 
arms  I — The  rest  were  called  upon  to  vote.  The 


ict  II. 


FIESCO. 


45 


imb,  the  hare,  the  stag,  the  ass,  the  tribe  of 
nsecls,  with  the  birds,  and  timid  fishes,  cried 
or  peace.  See,  Genoese  !  The  cowards  were 
nore  numerous  than  the  brave  :  the  foolish  than 
1  he  wise.  Numbers  prevailed — the  beasts  laid 
■own  their  arms,  and  Man  exacted  contributions 
rom  them.  The  democratic  system  was  aban- 
loned.  Genoese,  what  would  you  next  have 
•hosen  ? 

First  and  second  art.    A  select  government. 
Fics.    That  was  adopted.    The  business  of  the 

•  tate  was  all  arranged  in  separate  departments. 
Volves  were  the  financiers,  foxes  their  secre- 

:  aries,  pigeons  presided  in  the  criminal  courts, 

i  nd  tigers  in  the  courts  of  equity.  The  laws  of 
hastity  were  regulated  by  the  he-goats  ;  hares 
Fere  the  soldiers,  lions  and  elephants  staid  by 

Ipe  baggage.    The  ass  was  the  ambassador  of 

llhe  empire,  and  the  mole  inspector-general  of 
he  whole  administration.— Genoese,  what  think 
ou  of  this  wise  distribution  ?  Those  whom  the 
,rolf  did  not  devour,  the  fox  pillaged.  Whoever 
scaped  from  him  was  knocked  down  by  the  ass. 
The  tiger  murdered  innocents,  whilst  robbers 

|.nd  assassins  were  pardoned  by  the  pigeon.  And 
t  the  last,  when  each  had  laid  down  his  office, 
he  mole  declared  that  all  were  well  discharged.  * 

f!?he  animals  rebelled — •<  Let  us,"  they  cried 
manimously,   "   choose  a  monarch,  endowed 

with  strength  and  skill,  and  who  has  only  one"**^ 
tomach  to  appease."  And  to  one  chief  they  all 
id  homage.    Genoese — To  one — but — ( rising 

)nd  advancing  majestically )  that  one  was — The 
^ion. — 

i  All.  (Shouting,  and  throwing  up  their  hats. J 
iravo  !  Bravo  1  Well  managed,  Count  Lavagna  I 
I  First  art.  And  Genoa  shall  follow  that  exam- 
ple— Genoa  also  has  its  Lion. 


46  tiesco.  Act  I. 


Ties*  Tell  me  not  of  that  Lion  ;  but  go  home, 
and  think  upon  him.  (The  Artisans  depart 
tumultuously.)  It  is  as  I  would  have  it.  The 
people  and  the  senate  are  alike  enraged  against 
Doria  :  the  people  and  the  senate  alike  approve 
Fiesco.  Hassan  !  Hassan  !  I  most  take  advan- 
tage of  this  favorable  gale.  Hoa  !  Hassan  !  H  as- 
san !  I  must  augment  their  hatred — improve  my 
influence.  Hassan  !  Come  hither  !  Whoreson 
of  hell,  come  hither  I 


1 


Scene  IX. — Fiesco, — Moor,  entering  hastily 

Moor.    My  feet  are  quite  on  fire  with  ru 
ning — What  is  the  matter  now  ? 

Fies.    Hear  my  commands  ! 

Moor.    Whither  shall  I  run  first  ? 

Fies,  I  will  excuse  thy  running  this  time. 
Thou  shalt  be  dragged.  Prepare  thyself — I  intend 
to  publish  thy  attempted  assassination,  and  deli- 
ver thee  up  in  chains  to  the  criminal  tribunal. 

Moor.    Sir  !  That's  contrary  to  agreement. 

Fies.  Be  not  alarmed.  'Tis  but  a  farce.  At 
£his  moment,  'tis  of  the  utmost  consequence,  that 
Gianettino's  attempt  against  my  life  should  be 
made  public.  Thou  shalt  be  tried  before  the  cri- 
minal tribunal. 

Moor.    Must  I  confess  it,  or  deny  ? 

Fies.  Deny.  They  will  put  thee  to  the  tor- 
ture. Thou  must  hold  out  against  the  first  de- 
gree— This,  by  the  bye,  will  serve  to  expiate 
thy  real  crime.  At  the  second,  thou  may'st  con- 
fess. 

Moor.    The  devil  may  play  me  a  trick — Their 
worships  will  perhaps  desire  my  company  a  litt 
longer  than  I  should  wish,  and  to  conclude  t. 
farce,  I  should  be  broken  on  the  wheel. 

Fies.    Thou  shalt  escape   unhurt,  I  give  th 
my  honor  as  a  nombleman.   I  shall  request 


Act  II.  FIESCO.  4| 

have  thy  punishment  left  to  my  own  discretion, 
and  than  pardon  thee,  before  the  whole  republic. 

Moor.  Well — I  agree  to  it.  They  will  draw 
out  my  joints  a  little — but  that  will  only  make 
them  the  more  flexible. 

Fies.  Then  scratch  this  arm  with  thy  dagger, 
till  the  blood  follows.  I  will  pretend,  that  I  have 
just  now  seized  thee  in  the  fact.  'Tis  well — hal- 
looing violently.)  Murder  !  Murder  !  Guard  the 
passages  I  Make  fast  the  gates  I — ( He  drags  the 
VIoor  out  by  the  throaty  servants  run  across  the 
itage  hastily.) 

Scene    X.— Leonora  and  Rosa  enter  hastily, 
alarmed. 

Leo.  Murder,  they  cried — Murder.— The  noise 
;ame  this  way. 

Rosa.  Surely  'twas  but  a  common  tumulty 
iuch  as  happens  every  day  in  Genoa. 

Leo.     They  cried  murder  I — and  I  distinctly 
leard  Fiesco's  name.    In  vain  you  would  deceive 
ne — My  heart  discovers,  what  is  concealed  from 
Jny   eyes.    Quick !  Hasten   after  them.    See  P 
Tell  me,  whither  they  carry  him. 

Rosa.  Collect  your  spirits,  Madam.  Arabella 
s  gone. 

,  Leo.  Arabella  will  catch  his  dying  look.  The 
appy  Arabella  !  Wretch  that  I  am,  'twas  I  that 
uurdered  him.  If  I  could  have  engaged  his 
•  ieart,  he  would  not  have  plunged  into  the  world, 
ior  rush'd  upon  the  daggers  of  assassins. — Ah — 
he  comes-— Away — Oh,  Arabella,  speak  not  to 
ue  I 

Scene  XI. — The  Former — Arabella. 

Arab.  The  Count  is  living  and  unhurt.  I  saw 
um  gallop  through  the  city.  Never  did  he  ap- 
ear  more  handsome.    The  steed,  that  bore  him? 


4o  fiesco.  Act 


5 


pranced  haughtily  along,  and  with  its  pr 
hoof  kept  the  thronging  multitude  at  a  dista 
from  its  princely  rider.  He  saw  me  as  I  passed, 
and  with  a  gracious  smile,  thrice  kissed  his  hand 
to  me.  ( Archly.)  What  can  I  do  with  th 
kisses,  Madam  ? 

Leo.    Idle  prattler  !  Restore  them  to  him. 

Rosa.    See  now,  how  soon  your  color  has 
turned  1 

Leo.  His  heart  he  throws  away  upon  th 
girls,  whilst  I  am  anxious  to  obtain  a  look  ! 
wives  !  wives  !  ( Ex< 

Scene  XII. —  The  palace  of  Andreas. 

Gianettino,  and  Lomellino,  enter  hastilf^ 
Gian.    Let  them  roar  for  their  liberty,  as  a 

lioness  for  her  young — I  am  resolved. 

Lorn.    But — most  gracious  Prince  ! 

Gian.    Away  to  hell  with  thy  Buts>  thou  thr 
hours  Procurator  !  I  will  not  yield  a  hair's  bread 
Let  Genoa's  towers  shake  their  heads,  and 
♦hoarse  sea  rebellow  No,  to  it-— I  value  not  U 
opposing  multitude. 

Lorn.    The  people  are  indeed  the^  fuel  ; 
the  nobility  blow  up  the  flame.    The  whole  re 
public  is  in  a  ferment,  people,  and  patricians. 

Gian.  Then  will  I  stand  upon  the  mount  like 
Nero,  and  entertain  myself  with  looking  at  the 
flames. 

Lorn.  Till  the  whole  mass  of  sedition  falls  into 
the  hands  of  fome  enterprising  leader,  who  will 
take  advantage  of  the  general  devastation. 

Gian.  Poh  !  Poh  '  I  know  but  one  who  can 
be  dangerous,  and  he  is  taken  care  of. 

Lorn.    His  Highness  comes— 

Enter  Andreas — ( both  bow  respectfully.)  , 

And.  Signor  Lomellino,  my  niece  wishes  to 
take  the  air. 


ict  1L 


riEsco. 


49 


Lorn.    I  shall  have  the  honor  of  attending  her. 

(Exit  Lomeli.ino. 
Scene  XIII. — Andreas  and  Giaxettino. 

And.  Nephew,  I  am  much  displeased  with  you. 
Gian.     Grant  me  a  hearing,    most  gracious 
incle  1 

And.  That  I  would  grant  to  the  meanest  beg- 
;ar  in  Genoa,  if  he  deserved  it.  Never  to  a  vil- 
ain,  though  he  should  be  my  nephew.  It  is  suf- 
cient  favor,  that  I  address  thee  as  an  uncle,  not 
s  a  sovereign. 

!  Gian.    One  word  only,  gracious  Sir  ! 

I  And..  Hear  first  what  thou  hast  done,  then 
[■tover  me.  Thou  hast  pulled  down  an  edifice, 
jluch  I  had  labored  forfifty  years  to  raise — that 
/hich  should  have  been  thy  uncle's  mausoleum, 
is  only  pyramid — the  affection  of  his  country- 
len. — This  rashness  Andreas  pardons  thee— . 

Gian.    My  uncle,  and  my  sovereign  ! 

And.  Interrupt  me  not — Thou  hast  injured 
aat  most  glorious  work  of  mine,  the  Constituti- 
n,  which  I  brought  down  from  Heaven  for 
irenoa,  which  cost  me  so  many  sleepless  nights, 
)  many  dangers,  and  so  much  blood.  Before 

II  Genoa,  thou  hast  cast  a  stain  upon  my  honor, 
:i  violating  my  institutions.  Who  will  hold  them 
M?red  if  my  own  family  despise  them  ? — This 
)lly  thy  uncle  pardons  thee. 

Gian.  Sir,  you  educated  me  to  be  Duke  of 
jrenoa. 

And.  Be  silent !  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  state 
fid  hast  attacked  its  vital  principle.  Mark  me, 
by  !  That  principal  is  subordination.  Because 
le  shepherd  retiredrin  the  evening  from  his  labor, 
loughtest  thou  the  flock  deserted  ?  Because  An- 
reas'  head  is  white  with  age,  thoughtest  thou, 
ke  a  villain,  to  trample  on  the  laws  ? 

Gian.  Peace,  Duke  !  In  my  veins  also  boils  the 
vol.  ul)  O 


50 


I"  I E  S  C  O. 


blood  of  that  Andreas,  before  whom  France  h; 
trembled. 

And.  Be  silent,  I  command  thee.  When 
speak,  the  sea  itself  is  wont  to  pay  attentioi 
Thou  hast  insulted  the  majesty  of  justice  in  i 
very  sancFuary. — Rebel  I — Dost  thou  know  wh; 
punishment  that  crime  demands  ?  — Now  answer 
(Gianettino  appears  struck,  and  fixes  his  ejes  c 
the  ground  without  speaking.  J 
.And.  Wretched  Andreas!  In  thy  own  hea: 
thou  hast  bred  the  canker  of  thy  merit.  I  bui 
up  a  fabric  for  Genoa,  which  should  mock  tl 
lapse  of  ages,  and  am  myself  the  first  to  cast 
firebrand  into  it*  Thank  my  grey  head,  whk 
wishes  to  be  lam  in  the  grave  by  a  relatdii 
hand — Thank  my  unjust  love,  that  I  do  not  c 
the  scaffold  pour  out  thy  rebellious  blood,  to  si 
tisfy  the  violated  laws.  ( Exi 

Scene    XIV. — Gianettino   looking    after  t) 
Duke,  speechless  with  anger.  Lomellii.'o  ente,, 

ing  breathless  and  t  err  i fed.  — 

Lorn.     What    have  I   seen  1  What  have 
heard  !  Fly,  Prince  1  Fly  quickly  !  All  is  lost- 

Cian.    What  was  there  to  lose  ? 

Lorn.  Genoa,  Prince. — I  come  from  the  ma: 
ket-place.  The  people  were  crowding  round 
Moor,  who  was  dragged  along,  bound  wh 
cords.  The  Count  of  Lavagna,  with  above  thrc 
hundred  nobles,  followed  to  the  criminal  court- 
The  Moor  had  been  employed  to  assassinat 
Fitsco,  and  in  the  attempt  was  seized. 

Giatu  What,  are  all  the  devils  of  hell  1< 
loose  at  once  ? 

Lorn.  They  questioned  him  most  sricFly  coi 
cerning  his  employer.  The  Moor  confesse 
nothing.  They  tried  the  first  degree  of  tortur 
He  confessed  nothing.    They  put  him  to  tl 


ct  II. 


FIESCO. 


si 


cond.  Then  he  spoke — He  spdke — My  graci- 
is  Lord,  how  could  you  trust  your  honor  to 
ich  a  villain  ? 

Gian.    Ask  me  no  question  ! 
\  Lom.    Hear  the  rest  I  Scarcely  was  the  word 
roria  uttered — I  would  sooner  have;  seen  my 
line  inscribed  in  the  infernal  register,  than  have 

ard  yours  thus  mentioned — Scarcely  was  it 

tered,  when  Fiesco  showed  himself  to  the 
Jople. — You  know  the  man — with  the  voice  of 
|rsuasion,  he  commands,  and  plays  the  usurer 
(th  the  hearts  of  the  multitude.  The  whole 
tsembly  hung  upon  his  looks,  breathless  with 
iilignation. — He  spoke  little  ;  but  bared  his 
Wfing  arm.  The  crowd  contended  for  the 
Uing  drops  as  if  for  relics.  The  Moor  was  given 
I  to  his  disposal — and  Fiesco— a  mortal  blow 
I  us  !  Fiesco  pardoned  him.  Now  the  con  > 
led  anger  of  the  people  burst  forth  in  one  tu- 
■iltuous  clamor.  Each  breath  annihilated  a 
Iria,  and  Fiesco  was  borne  home  amidst  a 
tl»usand  joyful  acclamations. 

man.  Let  the  flood  of  tumult  swell  up  to  my 
ry  throat — The  Emperor  /-—That  sound  alone 
i  .11  strike  them  to  the  earth,  so  that  not  a 
[i  rmur  shall  be  heard  in  Genoa. 

Lorn.  Bohemia  is  far  from  hence.  If  the 
(tjiperor  hasten,  he  may  perhaps  be  present  at 
liir  funeral. 

uan.  ( Drawing  forth  a  letter  nvith  a  great 
m* J  'Tis  fortunate,  that  he  is  here  already.— 
A  thou  surprised  at  this  ?  And  didst  thou  think 
nr.  mad  enough  to  brave  the  fury  of  enraged 
tiublicans,  had  I  not  known  they  were  betray- 
Buid  sold  ? 

i\.om,    I  know  not  what  to  think  ! 

tian.  But  I  have  thought  of  something, 
fj'ch  thou  couldst  not  know.    My  plan  is  form- 


52  riEsc©.   |  A 

eel.  Ere  two  da^s  are  past,  twelve  senators 
fall.   Doria  becomes  sovereign,  and  the  Empei 
Charles  protects  him.      Thou  seemest  astoni 
ed  — 

Lorn,  Twelve  senators  !  My  bosom  tremble; 
to  encounter,  twelve  times,  a  deed  so  honibli 
as  murder. 

Gian.  Fool  that  thou  art  !  upon  these  victim* 
shall  I  build  my  throne.  I  consulted  with  the  mtn 
ister  of  Charles,  on  the  strong  party,  wl 
France  still  has  in  Genoa,  and  by  which 
might  a  second  time  seize  on  it,  unless 
^should  be  rooted  out.  This  worked  upon 
Emperor — He  approved  my  projects — And 
shalt  write  what  I  will  dictate  to  thee. 

Lorn.    I  know  not  yet  what  'tis,  you  purp< 

Gian.    Sit  down,  and  write — 

Lorn.  But  what  am  I  to  write?  ( Seats  himsel 

Gian.    The  names  of  the  twelve  candidates 
death— Francis  Zenturione. 

Lorn.    (Writes.)  In  gratitude  for  his  vote, 
leads  the  funeral  procession. 

Gian,    Cornelio  Calva. 

Lorn.   Calva— 

Gian.    Michael  Zibo. 

Lorn.  To  cool  him  after  his  disappointmen 
in  the  procuratorship. 

Gian.  Thomas  Asserato,  and  his  three  bn 
thers.    (Lomki.lino  stops.) 

Gian.    And  his  three  brothers— 

Lorn.    (Writes.)  Go  on. 

Gian.    Fiesco  of  Lavagno. 

Lorn.  Beware  of  that  black  stone.  If'jft, 
stumble  over  it,  it  will  be  fatal  to  xpu. 

Gian.  Scipio  Bourgognino. 

Lom.  He  may  celebrate  elsewhere  his  wee 
ding— 


Met  IL  ri£sc<y?      '  5S 

G/jrt.    Aye — Where  I  shalf  be  director  of  the 
niptials.    Raphael  Sacco. 

Lorn,    I  should   intercede. ,for   his  life,  until, 
Re  shall  have  paid  my  five  thousand  crowns. 
'Writes.) — Death  strikes  the  balance. 
,  Gian.    Vincent  Calcagno. 

|  Loin.  Calcagno — The  tweffth  I  write  at  my 
i)wn  risk,  unless  our  mortal  enemy  be  overlooked. 

Gian.    The  end  crowns  all— -Joseph  Verrina. 

Lorn.  He  is  the  very  head  of  the  viper,  that 
hreatens  us.  (Offers  the  paper"  tb  Gianettino.J 
liFwo  days  hence  death  makes  a  splendid  feast,  at 
which  twelve  of  the  chief  of  Genoa's  nobles  will 
||>e  present. 

I  Gian.  ( Signs  the  paper. J  'Tis  done — Two 
[llays  hence  will  be  the  ducal  election.  When 
he  senate  shall  be  assembled  for  that  purpose, 
hese  twelve  shall  on  a  sudden  signal  be  laid  low. 
My  two  hundred  Germans  will  have  surrounded 
he  senate-house — At  that  moment,  I  enter,  and 
laim  homage  as  the  Duke.  ( Rings  the  bell.) 

Lorn.    And  what  of  Andreas  ?  . 

Gian    He  is  an   old  man.    ( Enter  a  servant.) 
f  the  Duke   should  ask  for  me,  say  I  am  gone 
O  mass.    (Exit  servant.)  I  must   conceal  the 
levil,  that's  within,  beneath  a  saintly  garb. 
'  %om.    But,  my  Lord,  the  paper  : 

Gian.    Take  thou,  and  circulate  it  among  our 
[•arty. — This  letter  must  be  dispatched  by  express 
o  Levanto.  'Tis  to  inform  Spinola  of  our  intend-  * 
Id  plan,  and  to  direct  him  to  reach  the  capital 
arly  in  the  morning.    ( Going. ) 

Lorn.    Stop,  Prince — There  is  an  error  in  our' 
alculation — Fiesco  does  not  attend  the  senate. 
,  Gian.    Genoa   will  easily   supply  one  more 
|ssassin — I'll  see  to  that.    ( Exeunt  different  ivajs. 

o  2 


54  fie sco.  Act  II.  ^ 

Scene  XV. — An  antichamber  in  Fiesco's  palace,  w 
Fie sco,    with  papers  before  him — and  MooraI 

Fies.    Four  gallies  have   entered  the  harbour,  !  J 

dost  thou  say  ?     »  d 

Moor,    Yes,  they're  at  anchor  in  the  port. 
Fiesjfr  That's  sell.    Whence  are  these  dBl 
presses  I  «W 

Moor.    From  Rome,  Placentta,  and  France. 
Fies,     (Opens  the  letters,  and  runs  over  them. )  % 
Welcome  I  Welcome  news  !  Let  the  messengers 
be  treated  in  a  princely  manner. 

Moor.    Hem  ! — (Going.)  m 
Fies.  Stop,  stop,  here's  work  for  thee     plenty,  ] 
Moor.    Command  me.  I  am  ready  to  act  the 
setter,  or  the  blood-hound. 

Fies.    I  only  want  at  present  the  voice  of  the 
decoybird.    To-morrow  early,  two  thousand  men 
will  enter  the  city  in  disguise,  to  engage  in  my 
service.    Distribute  thy  assistants  at  the  gates, 
and  let  them  keep  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  stran- 
gers that  arrive.  Some  will  be  drest  like  pilgrims 
on  their  journey,  others  like  mendicant  friars,  or 
Savoyards,  or  actors  ;  some  as  pedlars,  and  mu- 
sicians ;  most  as  disbanded  soldiers,  come  to  seek 
xi  livelihood  in  Genoa.    Let  every  one  be  ask'd, 
where  he  takes  up  his  lodging.    IHhe  answe$ 
At  the  Golden  Snake,  let  him  be  treated  as  a 
friend,    and   shown  my  habitation.     Fellow,  J{ 
rely  upon  thy  prudence. 

Moor.  Sir,  you  may  rely  on  that,  as  much  as 
on  my  knavery.  If  a  single  head  escape  me, 
pluck  out  my  eyes,  and  shoot  at  sparrows  with 
them.  (g0l)\Z') 
Fies.  Stop — I've  another  piece  of  business  for 
thee.  The  arrival  of  the  gallies  will  excite  sus- 
picion in  the  city.  If  any  one  inquire  of  thee 
about  them,  say,  thou  has  heard  it  whisper'dj 


ct  JL 


FIESCO. 


55 


iat  thy  master   intends  to  cruise  against  the 
'urks.    Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Moor,    Yes,    yes,   the  basket  has  a  specious 
aver  ;  what  is  within,  Heaven  knows.  ( Going. ) 
Fies,    Stop  once  more — Gianettino  has  new 
_>asons  to  hate  me,  and  lay  snares  against  my 
fe#    Go — see   among  the  fellows  of  thy  trade, 
thou  canst  not  find  out    some  plot  on  foot 
gainst   me.   Visit  the    brothels — Doria  often 
equents  them.    The  secrets  on  the  cabinet  are 
mietimes  lodg'd  within  the  folds  of  the  petti- 
)at.    Promise  these  ladies  golden  customers, 
romise  them  thy  master—let  nothing  be  too 
.cred  to  be  used  in  gaining  the  desired  infor- 
;  j  ation. 

Moor,    Ha  !  luckily  I  am  acquainted  with  one 
'iana  Buononi,    whom  I  have  served   above  a 
war  as  procurer.    The  other  day,  I  saw  the 
■gnor  Lomellino  coming  out  of  her  house. 
' '  Fies,    That  suits  my  purpose  well.    This  very 
1  omellino  is  the  key  to  all  Doria's  projects.  To- 
morrow thou  shalt  go  thither.    Perhaps  he  is 
-night  the  Endymion  of  this  chaste  Diana. 
Moor,    One  more   question,  my  Lord.  Sup- 
!  pse  the  people  ask  me — and  that  they  will,  I'll 
rlawn    my    soul    upon    it — suppose    they  ask, 
illWhat  does  Fiesco  think  of  Genoa  ?"  Would  you 
Ifill  wear  the   mask  ? — or — how  shall  I  answer 
*  em  ? 

iLF/tfj.  Answer  ?— Hum  ! — The  fruit  is  ripe. 
Ijhe  pains  of  labor  announce  the  approaching 
Hrth.  Answer,  that  Genoa  lies  upon  the  block, 
I [id  that  thy  master's  name  is — John  Louis  of 
-ilesco — 

i  t  Moor,  That  business  shall  be  managed  neatly 
I  r  you,  I'll  pledge  the  credit  of  my  profession 
'In  it.  Now  be  alert,  friend  Hassan  !  First  to  a  ta- 
in rn — My  feet  have  work  enough  cut  out  for  them. 


5  5 


F1ESC0. 


Act 


I  must  coax  my  stomach  to  intercede  with 
legs.    ( Hastening  away— -returns.)  Oh  !  aprop 
My    chattering    made   me  almost  forget 
circumstance.    You  wish'd  to  know,  what  pa 
ed  between  Calcagno  and  your  wife.    A  refus 
Sir—That's  all — (Jtuns  off.) 

Scene  XVI. — Fiesco  alone. 

I  pity  thee,  Calcagno — Didst  thou  think 
should,  upon  so  delicate  a  point,  have  been  t 
careless,  had  I  not  relied  on  my  wife's  virt 
and  my  own  superior  merits  ?  I  approve 
passion.  Thou  art  a  good  soldier.  This 
unite  thy  arm  with  mine,  to  the  destruction 
Doria. — Now,  Doria,  let  us  come  to  the  conte 
All  the  machines  are  ready  for  the  grand  attem 
the  instruments  are  tun'd  for  the  tremend 
concert — Nought  is  wanting,  but  to  throw 
the  mask,  and  show  Fiesco  to  the  patriots 
Genoa,  {Some  persons  are  heard  approaching. j 
Ha  !  Visitors  ! — Who  can  be  coming  to  disturb 
me  ? 

Scene  XVII. — Fiesco,    Verrina,  Romano. 
with  a  picture  ;  Sacco,    Bourgognino,  Cal* 

CAGNO. 

Fies.  Welcome,  my  worthy  friends  !  What 
important  business  brings  you  all  hither  I  Are 
you  too  come,  my  dear  brother,  Verrina  ! — Ii 
should  almost  have  forgotten  you,  had  you  not 
more  frequently  been  present  to  my  thoughts,, 
than  to  my  sight.  I  think  I  have  not  seen  youJ 
since  my  last  entertainment. 

Ver.  Do  not  count  the  hours,  Fiesco  !  heavy 
burdens  have,  in  that  interval,  weigh'd  down! 
my  aged  head.    But  enough  of  this — 

Fies.  Not  enough  to  satisfy  the  anxietyjB 
friendship.    You  must  inlorm  me  father  whenj 


et  II. 


fiesco. 


5  7 


re  are  alone.  (Addmssing  Boixrgognino.J 
Velcome,  brave  youth  !  Our  acquaintance  is  yet 
•reen ;  but  my  affection  for  thee  is  already  ripe, 
{as  your  esteem  for  me  improv'd  ? 

Boxir,  'Tis  on  the  increase. 
i\  Fies.  Verrina,  it  is  reported,  that  this  brave 
oung  man  is  to  be  your  son-in-law.  Receive 
ny  warmest  approbation  of  your  choice.  I  have 
onvers'd  with  him  but  once  ;  and  yet  I  should 
•e  proud  to  call  him  my  relation. 

Ver.  That  opinion  might,  on  my  daughter's 
account,  make  me  vain. 

:  Fies.  Sacco,  Calcagnoj  all  unfrequent  visi- 
ors — I  should  fear  your  absence  were  a  proof, 
hat  I  had  been  deficient  in  politeness.  And  here 
/greet  a  fifth  guest,  v$  unknown  to  me  indeed, 
(>ut  sufficiently  recommended  by  this  worthy 
prcle. 

J  Rom.  He,  my  Lord,  is  but  a  painter,  named 
ftomano,  who  lives  on  what  he  steals  from  Na- 
|ure.  His  pencil  is  his  only  coat  of  arms.  And 
Ike  now  comes  hither  to  catch  some  features  for 
'  i  head  of  Brutus. 

I  Fies.  Give  me  your  hand,  Romano  !  I  admire 
.he  mistress,  whom  you  serve.  Art  is  the  right 
nand  of  Nature.  The  latter  gave  us  being,  but 
twas  the  former  made  us  men.  What  are  the 
subjects  of  your  labor  ? 

Moor*  Scenes  from  the  heroic  ages  of  anti- 
quity. At  Florence  is  my  dying  Hercules,  at 
Venice  my  Cleopatra,  the  Ajax  furious,  at 
Rome  ;  where,  in  the  Vatican,  the  heroes  of  past 
times  rise  again  to  light. 

Fies.    And  what  just  now  employs  you  ? 

Rom.  Alas  !  my  Lord,  I've  thrown  away  my 
pencil.  The  animation  of  my  genius  seemed 
not  to  keep  pace  with  the  progress  of  my  life. 


58  FIESCO.  Act  II. 

The  crown  of  popular  applause  shines  but  a 
"while— This  is  my  last  production  — 

Fies.  It  could  not  come  more  opportunely.  I 
feel  to-day  a  more  than  usual  cheerfulness — A 
sentiment  of  calm  delight  pervades  my  being, 
and  fits  it  to  receive  the  impression  of  Nature's 
beauties.  Let  us  view  your  picture.  I  shall 
feast  upon  the  sight.  Come,  friends,  we  will 
devote  ourselves  entirely  to  the  artist.  Place 
your  piclure. 

Ver.  ( Apart  to  the  others.)  Now,  Genoese, 
observe  ! 

Rom.  (Placing  the  picture.')  The  light  must 
fall  upon  it  thus — Draw  up  that  curtain — Let  fall 
the  other  — Right.  It  is  the  story  of  Virginia, 
and  Appius  Claudius.  ( A  long  pause — all  con- 
template the  picture.) 

Ver.  {With  enthusiasm.)  Strike,  aged  father  I 
Dost  thou  tremble,  tyrant  ?  How  pale  you  stand 
there,  Romans  !  Follow  him,  senseless  Ro- 
mans !  The  sword  yet  glitters — Follow  we,  sense- 
less Genoese  !  Down  with  Doria  I  Down  with 
him  1  (Striking  at  the  picture.) 

Fies.  (To  the  painter,  smiling.)  Do  you  re- 
quire more  applause  ?  Your  art  transforms  this 
old  man  into  a  beardless  dreamer. 

Ver.  Where  am  I  !  What  is  become  of  me  ! 
They  vanish'd  away  like  bubbles.  Thou  here, 
Fiesco  I  and  the  tyrant  living  ! 

Fies.  My  friend,  amidst  this  admiration,  you 
have  overlook'd  the  parts  most  truly  beauteous. 
Does  this  Roman's  head  thus  strike  you  !  Look 
there  !  Observe  that  damsel — what  soft  expressi- 
on !  What  a  feminine  delicacy  !  How  sweetly 
touch'd  are  those  pale  lips  !  How  exquisite  that 
dying  look  !  Inimitable  1  Divine  Romano  !  And 
that  white  dazzling  breast,  that  heaves  with  the 
last  pulse  of  life.    Draw  more '  such  beauties, 


Act  II, 


BIESCO. 


59 


Romano,  and  I  will  give  up  Nature,  to  worship 
thy  creative  Fancy. 

Bourg.  Is  it  thus,  Verrina,  your  hopes  are 
answered  ? 

Ver.  Take  courage,  son  !  The  Almighty  has 
•ejected  the  arm  of  Fiesco.  We  will  be  his 
nstruments. 

Fics,  (  To  Romano.)  Well — 'Tis  your  last  work, 
Romano — Your  powers  are  exhausted — Throw 
iway  the  pencil.  Yet,  whilst  I  am  admjring 
he  artist,  I  forget  to  devour  the  work.  I  could 
itand  gazing  on  it,  and  disregard  an  earthquake, 
fake  away  your  picture — the  wealth  of  Genoa 
souldbe  too  little  to  pay  for  this  Virginia — Take 
■  it  away — 

I  Rom.  Honor  sufficiently  rewards  the  artist— I 
jjiresent  it  to  you. .  {Offers  to  go  away,) 

Fics.    Stay,  Romano  I  ( He  walks  majestically 
fi  and  down  the  room  seeming  to  rejlect  on  something 
f  importance — sometimes  he  casts  a  quick  and  pene- 
rating  glance  at  the  others — at  last  he  takes  Ro- 
iano  by  the  hand,  and  leads  him   to  the  picture, J 
■Come  hither,  painter — So  self-contented  stand'st 
tlhou  there,  because  thou  animatestthe  dead  can- 
lass  with  unreal  life,  and,  at  no  hazard,  canst 
[immortalize  heroic  deeds  ?  Thy  boast  is  nothing 
(Jut  the  glow  of  ficlion,  the  idle  play  of  fancy  :  it 
||  ants  a  heart,  a  spring  of  daring  action.  Thou 
I  verthrowest  tyrants  on  thy  tablet,  and  art  thy- 
Ijelf  a  miserable  slave.    Thou  freest  nations  with 
lliy  pencil,  but  thine  own  chains  thou  canst  not 
f  reak  asunder. — Go  !  Thy  work  is  trifling.  Let 
tippearance  give  way  to  reality  !  {Overturning  the 
llicture,)  I  have  done,  what  thou — hast  only  pain- 
)jpd.    {All  struck  with  astonishment — Romano  car- 
'es  away  the  picture  in  confusion,) 


60 


FIE5C0. 


Act  I 


Scene  XVIII. —  The  Former,  except  Romano 

Fies, — Did  you  suppose  the  lion  slept,  be 
cause  he  ceas'd  to  roar  ?  Did  your  vain  thought 
persuade  you,  that  none  but  you  could  feel  th 
chains  of  Genoa  ?  That  none  but  you  durst  breal 
them  ?  Before  you  know  their  weight,  Fieso 
had  already  broken  them.  He  opens  a  scrutore 
takes  oat  a  parcel  of  letters,  and  throws  them  on  th 
table.)  These  bring  soldiers  from  Parma — These 
French  money — These,  four  gallies  from  th< 
pope — What  now  is  wanting  to  hurl  the  tyran 
from  his  throne  ?  Tell  me,  what  think  you  wan 
ting  ?  {All  stand  silent  with  astonishment.)  Re 
publicans,  you  waste  your  time  in  curses,  whei 
you  should  overturn  the  tyrant.  (All  but  Veb 
rina  throw  themselves  at  Fiesco's  feet.) 

Ver.  Fiesco— my  spirit  bends  to  thine  ;  bu 
my  knee  cannot.  Thy  soul  is  great — but—Rise 
Genoese  I  {They  rise.) 

Fies.  All  Genoa  was  indignant  at  the  effemi 
nate  Fiesco  :  all  Genoa  curs'd  the  profligate 
Fiesco.  Genoese,  my  amours  have  blinded  tht 
counning  despot.  My  wild  excesses  served  t< 
guard  my  plans  from  the  danger  of  an  impruden 
confidence.  Conceal'd  beneath  the  cloak  of  lux 
ury,  the  infant  plot  grew  up — Enough — I'n 
known  sufficiently  to  Genoa,  in  being  known  t< 
you.    I  have  attained  my  utmost  wish. 

Bourg.    Am  I,  then,  nothing  ? 

Fies.  But  let  us  turn  from  thought  to  action 
All  the  engines  are  prepar'd — I  can  storm  th( 
city  by  sea  and  land.  Rome,  France,  and  Parma 
cover  me.  The  nobles  are  disaffected — Thi 
hearts  of  the  populace  are  mine.  I  have  lull'd  t< 
sleep  the  tyrants.  The  state  is  ripe  for  revolution 
We  are  no  longer  in  the  hands  of  Fortune.  No 
thing  is  wanting — Verrina  is  lost  in  thought- 


Act  IL 


FIESCO. 


Bourg.  Patience  !— -I  have  a  word  to  say, 
which  will  more  quickly  rouse  him  than  the  trum- 
pet of  the  last  clay — (To  Verrina.J  Father  ! 
iwake  ! — Thy  Bertha  will  despair. 

-Ver.  Who  spoke  those  words  ?— Genoese,  to 
trms  ! 

'.  Fies.  Think  on  the  means  of  forwarding  our 
ilan.  Night  has  advanc'd  upon  our  discourse  : 
ienoa  is  wrapt  in  sleep  :  the  tyrant,  wearied  by 
he  sins  of  the  day,  sinks  down  to  rest.— Watch 
or  your  country  ! 

Bourg.  Let  us,  before  we  part,  consecrate 
ur  heroic  union  by  an  embrace  !  (They  form  a 
'rcle,  with  joined  arms,)  Here  unite  five  of  the 
ravest  hearts  in  Genoa,  to  decide  their  country's 
iite.  ( All  embrace.)  W^hen  the  universe  shall 
ill  asunder,  and  the  eternal  sentence  shall  cut 
ji  twain  the  bonds  of  consanguinity  and  love — 
'hen  may  this  fivefold  band  of  heroes  still  re- 
pain  entire  !  {They  separate.) 
;  Ver.    When  shall  wre  next  assemble? 

fies.    At  noon,   to-morrow,   I'll  hear  your 
^ntiments. 

Ver.  Well— at  noon  to-morrow.  Good  night, 
iesco  !  Come,  Bourgognino — you  will  hear 
>mething  wonderful.      {Exeunt  Verrina  and 

OURGOGNINO. 

Fies.    (To  the  others.)   Depart  by  the  back - 
;ites,  that  Doria's  spies  may  not  suspect  us. 

(Exeunt  Sacco  and  Calcagno 

Scene  XIX. — Fiesco  alone. 

What  a  tumult  is  in  my  breast  1  What  acon- 
)urse  of  dark,  uncertain  images  !  Like  guilty 
retches  stealing  out  in  secret  to  do  some  hor- 
d  deed,  with  trembling  steps,  and  blushing 
ces  bent  toward  the  ground,  these  flattering 


OL.  II.) 


P 


€2 


V  IK  SCO. 


Act  //, 


phantoms  glide  athwart  my  soul.  Stay — Stay- 
Let  me  examine  you  more  closely — A  virtuous 
thought  strengthens  the  heart  of  man,  and  bold- 
ly meets  the  day— Ha  !  I  know  you,  robed  in 
the  livery  of  Satan — Avaunt !  — ( a  pause )  Fiesco 
the  Patriot  I  the  Duke  Fiesco  ! — Peace  1  On  this 
steep  prec  ipice,  the  boundaries  of  virtue  termi- 
nate :  here  heaven  and  hell  are  separated.  Here 
have  heroes  stumbled,  here  have  they  fallen,  and 
left  behind  a  name  loaded  with  curses — Here,  too. 
have  heroes  paus'd,  here  check'd  their  course, 
and  risen  to  immortality. — To  know  the  heart? 
of  Genoa  mine  !  To  govern  with  a  master's  hand 
this  formidable  state  ! — O  artifice  of  sin,  thai 
masks  each  devil  with  an  angel's  face  !  Fatal 
ambition  !  Everlasting  tempter  !  Won  by  thy 
charms,  angels  abandoned  heaven,  and  Death, 
sprung  from  thy  embraces.  Thy  syren  voice 
drew  angels  from  their  celestial  mansions.  Mar 
thou  ensnarest  with  beauty,  riches,  power.  T( 
gain  a  diadem  is  great — To  rejecTtit  is  divine  !— 
Perish  the  tyrant  ! — Let  Genoa  be  free — and  1 
will  be  its  happiest  citizen. 


LND   OF  THE  SECOND  ACT. 


Act  III. 


FIESCO. 


63 


ACT  TIL 

Scene  I. — Midnight.    A  dreary  wilderness. 
Verrina  and  Bourgognino  entering. 

Bourg.  Whither  are  you  leading  me,  father? 
The  heavy  grief  that  hung  upon  your  mind,  when 
first  you  bade  me  follow  you,  still  seems  to  la- 
bor in  your  panting  breast.  Break  this  dread- 
ful silence  I — Speak  \  I  Avill  go  no  further. 

Ver.    This  is  the  place. 

Bourg.  You  could  not  choose  a  spot  more 
awful.  Father,  if  the  deed  you  purpose  be  like 
the  place — Father — my  hair  will  stand  upright 
with  horror. 

Ver.  Yet  it  is  bright  and  cheerful,  to  the 
gloom  that  enwraps  my  soul.  Follow  me  to  yon 
tchurch-yard,  where  Corruption  preys  on  the 
Imould'ring  carcases,  and  Death  holds  his  abhor- 
ired  feast — where  shrieks  of  tormented  souls  de- 
ilight  the  listening  devils,  and  sorrow  sheds  her 
(fruitless  tears  into  the  never  filling  urn.— There, 
jmy  son,  where  the  condition  of  this  world  is 
(changed,  and  God's  indulgence  ceases — there 
'will  1  speak  to  thee  in  agony,  and  thou  shalt 
,hear  me  with  despair. 

Bourg.  Hear  1  what  ?  I  conjure  you,  father. 
Veri  Youth  ! — I  fear — Youth,  thy  blood  is 
warm  and  rosy,  thy  flesh  is  soft  and  tender — . 
Such  natures  are  alive  to  human  kindness — This 
warmth  of  feeling  melts  my  obdurate  wisdom. 
If  the  frost  of  age,  or  sorrow's  leaden  pressure 
had  check'd  the  sprightly  vigor  of  thy  spirits-— 
If  black  congealed  blood  had  closed  the  avenues 
of  thy  heart  against  the  approaches  of  humani- 
ty— then  would  thy  mind  be  suited  to  the  Ian- 


64  Ft e sco.  Act  111. 

guage  cf  my  grief,  and  thou  wouldst  look  with 

admiration  on  my  project. 

Bourg,  I  will  hear  it,  and  embrace  it  as  my 
own. 

Ver,  Not  so,  my  son — Verrina  will  not  wound 
thy  heart  with  it.  O  Scipio,  heavy  burdens  lie 
on  me.  A  thought  more  dark  and  horrible" th 
night,  too  vast  to  be  contained  within  the  brei 
of  man  !  Mark  me — my  hand  alone  shall  execute 
the  deed  ;  but  my  mind  cannot  support  the 
weighty  secret.  If  I  were  proud,  Scipio,  I 
might  say,  Greatness  unshared  is  torture.  It 
was  a  burden  to  the  Deity  himself,  and  he  crea- 
ted angels  to  partake  his  counsels — Hear,  Scipio! 

Bourg,    My  soul  devours  thy  words. 

Ver,  Hear  1  But  answer  nothing — Nothing, 
young  man  1  Observe  me — Not  a  word — Fiesco 
must  die — 

Bourg,    Die  ! — Fiesco  ! — 

Ver,  Die — I  thank  thee,  God,  the  word  is 
spoken — Fiesco  must  die. — My  son — die  by  my 
hand. — Now  go  !  There  are  deeds  too  high  for 
human  judgment.  They  appeal  alone  to  Hea- 
ven's tribunal.  Such  a  one  is  this.  Go  !  1  nei- 
ther want  thy  blame  nor  approbation.  I  know 
my  inward  struggles,  that  is  sufficient.  But 
hear  !  These  thoughts  might  weary  out  thy  mind 
even  to  madness.— Hear  !  Didst  thou  observe  yes- 
terday, with  what  pride  he  viewed  his  greatness 
reflected  from  our  wondering  countenances  !  The 
man  whose  smiles  deceived  all  Italy,  will  he  en- 
dure in  Genoa  his  equals  ?  Go  !  'Tis  certain, 
that  Fiesco  will  overthrow  the  tyrant. — 'Tis  as 
certain,  he  will  become  a  tyrant  still  more  dan- 
gerous. ( 'Exit  hastily,  Bourgognino  looks  after 
him  with  speechless  surprise^  then  follows  slowly,) 


Act  III.  TIE  SCO.  65 

Scene  II.—- An  apartment  in  Fiesco'^  house, 
which  affords  a  view  of  the  sea  and  Genoa,  Day- 
break. 

(lie sco   alone.)    The  moon    is    clown.  The 
morning  rises  fiery  from  the  sea.  Wild  fancies 
•  have  despelled  my  sleep,   and  drawn  together 
all  my  faculties  round  one  idea.  Let  me  breathe 
the  pure  fresh-blowing  air — ( he  opens  a  window  r 
.  the  town  and  sea  appear  red  with  the  tint  of  mor- 
ning.)— I,    the  greatest   man  in  Genoa  !  And 
should  not   little  souls  bend  down  before  the 
great  ? — But  is  not  this  to  trample  upon  vritue  !— 
Virtue  ?  The  elevated  being  feels  not  the  vulgar 
\  impulse.  Shall  he  share  the  vulgar  virtues  1  Can 
[the  armour,  which  encases  the   pigmy's  feeble 
i  body,  be  suited  to  the  giant  ?  {The  sun  rises  over 
|£Jenoa.)—  This  majestic  city  mine  ! — To  flame 
I  ibove  it  like  the  god  of  day  1  To  spread  over  it 
\  :he  strong  protection  of  a  kingly  arm  '  To  plunge 
t'my  ardent  wishes  into  the  unfathomable  ocean  of 
/  greatness  ! — Surely,  whate'er  the  guilt  of  the 
i  ittempt,  'twill  be  ennobled  by  a  prize  so  splen- 
.  did  I  The  petty  thief  meets  only  with  contempt. 

The  plunderer  of  thousand  is  thought  audaci- 
-  dus. — But  he    who    seizes   on  a  crown,  gains 
ieathless  honor,    As  guilt  extends  its  sphere, 
r  :he  infamy  decreases.  To  obey,  or,  to  command  i 
K  stand  on  the  brink  of  a  gulf  which  can  be  fil- 
|  ed  by  nothing  human.  In  vain  the  conqueror 
I  ivould  bring  his  trophies,  the  artist  his  sublime 
)roduc~lions,   the    epicure    his    pleasures.  To 
)bey,   or,    to  command  1  To  exist,  or,    to  be 
mnihilated  I — The  space  between  them  is  as  wide 
.s  from  the   lowest  seraph   to  the  Almighty. — 
i  ?orm  that  awful  height  to  look   securely  down 
ipon  the  busy  scene,  which  fortune  with  capri- 
ious  sway  directs  !    To   quaff    the  deepest 

p  2 


66 


FIESCO. 


Act  III. 


draughts  from  the  rich  cup  of  pleasure  1  To  hold 
the  law  itself  in  chains,  a  frowning  captive,  and 
see  it  struggle,  with  fruitless  efforts,  against  the 
power  of  majesty  ! — To  curb  the  stubborn  pas- 
sions of  the  people,  and  guide  them  like  foaming 
steeds,  indignantly  submitting  to  the  bit  ! — 
With  a  breath  to  quell  the  rising  pride  of  vassals, 
whilst  the  Prince  can,  with  the  motion  of  his 
sceptre,  call  to  life  even  the  dreams  of  his  disor- 
dered fancy  !  Ah  !  What  thoughts  are  these  I 
which  urge  the  astonished  mind  beyond  the  boun- 
daries of  nature.  Prince  !  on  one  moment  hang 
thy  fairest  hopes  !  'Tis  the  exalted  station,  that 
gives  to  life  its  value.  The  murmurs,  which 
compose  the  thunder's  sound,  might  singly  lull  to 
sleep  an  infant  ;  their  united  crash  can  rend  the 
eternal  vault  of  Heaven. — I  am  determined  ! 
Scene  III. — Fiesco,  Leonora. 

Leo.  Pardon  me,  Count.  I  fear,  I  interrupt 
your  morning  rest. 

Fies.  Indeed,  Madam,  you  surprise  me  very 
unexpectedly. 

Leo.  That  cannot  happen  between  those 
who  live. 

Lies.  Charming  Countess,  you  expose  your 
beauty  to  the  rude  breath  of  morning. 

Leo.  I  know  not,  why  I  should  preserve  its 
small  remains,  for  grief  to  feed  on. 

Fies.  Grief,  my  love  ?  I  thought,  that  to  be 
free  from  cares  of  state  was  happiness — 

Leo.  It  may  be  so — but  my  weak  female 
heart,  even  amidst  this  happiness  is  breaking. 
I  come,  Sir,  to  trouble  you  with  a  trifling  re- 
quest, if  you  can  spare  a  moment's  time  to  hear 
me.  These  seven  months  past  I  have  indulged 
the  idle  dream  of  being  Countess  of  Lavagna. 
It  now  has  past  away,  and  left  a  painful  weight 
upon  my  mind.    Amid  the  pleasures  of  my  in* 


Act  III. 


FIESCO. 


67 


nocent  childhood,  I  must  seek  relief  to  my  dis- 
ordered spirits. — Permit  me  therefore,  to  return 
into  the  arms  of  my  good  mother — 
Fies.    Countess  ! 

Leo,  My  heart  is  a  poor  trembling  thing, 
which  you  should  pity.  Even  the  least  remem- 
brance of  my  visionary  joy  might  wound  my 
sickly  fancy.  I  therefore  restore  the  last  me- 
morials of  your  kindness  to  their  just  owner. 
(She  lays  some  trinkets  on  the  table.)  This  too, 
that  like  a  dagger  struck  my  heart— (presenting 
a  letter.)  This  too  ! — (going  to  rush  out  of  the 
Yioor  in  tears, J  And  I  will  retain  nothing  but  the 
wound. 

Fies.  (Detaining  her,)  For  God's  sake,  stay! 
Leo,    To  be  your  wife  was  more  than  I  de- 
served.— But  she,  who  was  your  wife,  deserved 
kt  least  respecl.    How  will  the  wives  and  maid- 
ens of  Genoa  look  down  upon  me  !  "  See,"  they 
nil   say,  u  how    fades   the    haughty  female, 
whose  vanity  aspired  to  Fiesco  !" — Cruel  punish- 
ment of  my    pride   ! — I  triumphed    over  my 
i  whole  sex,  when  my  Fiesco  led  me  to  the  altar— 
Fies,    Madam  ! 

Leo,    'Tis  well— He  chanees  color — I  revive. 
tr Fies.    What  only  two  days.  Countess — Then 
judge  my  conduct — 
Leo.    To  be  sacrificed. — Let  me  not  speak  it 
|  |n  thy  chaste  presence,  O  thou  virgin  Day  ! — To 
j  be  sacrificed  to  a  shameless  wanton  !  Look  on  me, 
n  my  husband  !  Ah,  surely  those  eyes,  that  make 
I J  ill  Genoa  tremble,  must  hide  themselves  before 
f|i  weeping  woman — 

Fies,  No  more,  Signora  ! — No  more — 
Leo.    To  rend  the  heart  of  a  poor  helpless 
emale  I — Oh,  it  is   worthy  of  that  manly  sex. 
ntp  these  arms  I  threw  myself,  and  on  their 
trength  reposed  my  feminine  weakness. — To 


68 


FIESCO. 


Ad  III, 


him,  I  trusted  the  heaven  of  my   hopes. — Thel  is 

generous  man  bestowed  it  on  

Fies.    No — my  Leonora  i 

Leo,    My  Leonora  ! — Heaven,  I  thank  theelfl 
These  were  the  sounds  of  love  yet  unalloyed. — 1 
ought  to  hate  thee,  faithless  man  !  And  yet  I  •! 
fondly   grasp  the  shadow  of  thy    tenderness. — 
Hate!  said  I  r — hate  Fiesco  ? — Oh,    believe  It jfl 
not  1  Thy  perfidy  may  bid  me  die,  but  cannot 
bid  me  hate  thee.    I  did  not  know  my  heart— 
(The  Moor  is  heard  approaching. J 

Fies.  Leonora  ! — grant  me  one  trifling  favor— 

Leo.    Every  thing  Fiesco, — but  indifference-*! 

Fies.  Well,  well. — Till  Genoa  be  two  days 
older,  do  not  ask — Do  not  condemn  nie — {leads 
her  politely  to  another  apartment.) 

Scene  IV.    Fiesco  the  Moor. 

Fies.  Whence  come  you,  thus  out  of  breath  !! 

Moor.    Quick,  my  Lord  ! 

Fies.    Has  any  thing  run  into  the  net  ? 

Moor.  Read  this  letter. — Am  I  really  here  ? 
Methinks  Genoa  is  become  shorter  by  twelve 
streets,  or  else  my  legs  are  so  much  longer.  You 
change  color — Yes,  yes — They  play  at  cards  for 
lives,  and  yours  is  the  chief  stake.  How  do  you 
like  it  ! 

Fies.  Thou  woolly-pated  rascal !  How  comest 
thou  by  the  letter  ? 

Moor.  Much  in  the  same  way,  that  your 
Grace  will  gain  the  state. — An  express  was  sent 
with  it  toward  Levanto.  I  smelt  out  the  busi- 
ness ;  way-laid  the  fellow  in  a  narrow  pass,  dis- 
patched the  fox,  and  brought  the  poultry  hither— 

Fies.  His  blood  be  on  thee  ! — As  for  the  let- 
ter, 'tis  not  to  be  paid  with  gold. 

Moor.  Yet  I  will  be  content  with  silver  for 
it. — Count  of  Lavagna  I  'twas  but  the  other  day  I 


ict  III. 


tiesco. 


60 


jotlght  your  life.  To-day  (pointing  to  the  letter  J  I 
lave  preserved  it.    Now  I  think  his  Lordship  and 

he  scoundrel  are  even.  My  further  service  is 
in  act  of  friendship — ( presents  another  paper)— 
dumber  two  ! 

.;Fies.    Art  thou  mad  ? 

Moor.  Number  two — The  Lion  has  not  acted 
oolishly  in  pardoning  the  mouse.  Ah  I  'Twas  a 
leed  of  policy.  Who  else  could  e'er  have  gnawed 
he  net  with  which  he  was  surrounded  ?  Now, 
»ir — How  like  you  that  ? 

Fies.  Fellow,  how  many  devils  hast  thou  in 
>ay  ? 

Moor.  But  one,  Sir,  at  your  service  ;  and  he 
Is  in  your  Grace's  keeping. 

Fies.  What  ! — Doria's  signature  !  Whence 
ost  thou  bring  this  paper  ? 

or.  Fresh  from  the  hands  of  my  Diana.  I 
;ent  to  her  last  night,  tempted  her  with  your 
harming  words,  and  still  more  charming  se- 
uins.  The  last  prevailed — She  bade  me  call 
arly  in  the  morning.  Lomellino  had  been  there 
s  you  foretold,  and  paid  for  his  forbidden  joys, 
ith  this  deposit. 

Fies.  Oh  these  vile  women's  slaves  !  They 
ould  govern  kingdoms,  and  cannot  keep  a  se- 
ret  from  a  harlot — By  these  papers  I  learn, 
lat  Doria  and  his  party  have  formed  a  plot  to 
mrder  me,  with  eleven  senators,  and  to  place 
ianettino,  on  the  throne. 

Moor.  Even  so — And  that  upon  the  morning 
fthe  ducal  election,  the  third  of  this  month. 

Fies.  The  night  of  our  enterprise  shall  smo- 
ler  that  morning  in  its  very  birth.  Speed  thee, 
assan  1  My  affairs  are  ripe.  Collect  our  fel- 
ws.  We  will  prevent  our  adversaries  in  this 
oody  business.  Be  active,  Hassan  ! 

Moor.    I  have  a  budget  full  of  news  beside. 


70 


FIESCO. 


Act  111 


Two  thousand  soldiers  are  smuggled  luckily  inu 
the  city.  I've  lodg'd  them  with  the  Capuchins,, 
where  not  even  a  prying  sun-beam  can  espy  them 
They  burn  with  eagerness  to  see  their  leader! 
They  are  fine  fellows. 

Fies.    Each  head  of  them  shall  yield  to  thee  j 
ducat.    Is  there  no  talk  about  my  gallies  ? 

Moor.  Oh,  I've  a  pleasant  story  of  them,  my 
Lord.  Above  four  hundred  adventurers  whoB 
the  peace  'twixt  France  and  Spain  has  left  with  i 
out  employ,  besought  my  people  to  recomment 
them  to  your  Grace,  to  fight  against  the  infidels 
I  have  appointed  them  to  meet  this  evening  ii 
the  palace-court. 

Fies.  I  could  almost  embrace  thee,  rascal. 
A  masterly  stroke  1  Four  hundred,  said'st  thou  ?— 
Genoa  is  in  my  power.  Four  hundred  crown 
are  thine — 

Moor.  Ah,  Fiesco  !  We  two  will  pull  thi 
state  in  pieces,  and  sweep  away  the  laws  as  witl 
a  besom. — You  know  not  how  many  heart) 
fellows  I  have  among  the  garrison — lads  that  i 
can  reckon  on  as  surely  as  on  a  trip  to  hell.  Nov, 
I've  so  laid  my  plans,  that  at  each  gate  we  haft 
among  the  guard  at  least  six  of  our  creatures 
who  will  be  enough  to  overcome  the  others  b] 
persuasion,  or  by  wine.  If  you  wish  to  risk  a 
blow  to-night,  you'll  find  the  centinels  all  drench 
ed  with  liquor. 

Fies.  Peace,  fellow  !  Hitherto  I  have  move* 
the  vast  machine  myself.  Shall  I  now  beg  fti 
sistance  from  so  vile  a  slave  as  thee  I  Give  m\ 
thy  hand — Whate'er  the  Count  remains  indebted 
to  thee,  the  Luke  shall  pay. 

Moor.  And  here,  too,  is  a  note  from  thi 
Countess  Imperiali.  She  beckon'd  to  me  from 
her  window,  when  I  went  up,  received  me  gra 
ciously— asked  me  ironically  if  the  Countess  o 


ict  III.  riitsco.  71 

Lftvagna  had  not  been  lately  troubled  with  the 
pleen — Does  your  Grace,  said  I,  inquire  but  for 
me  person  ? 

Fies.    Well — What  answer  made  she  ? 

Moor,  She  answer,  that  she  still  lamented 
he  fate  of  the  poor  widow — that  she  was  willing 
o  give  her  satisfaction,  and  meant  to  forbid  your 
trace's  attentions. 

Fies.  Which,  of  themselves,  may  possibly 
e  ended  before  the  day  of  judgment.  Is  that  all 
hy  business,  Hassan  ? 

Moor.  My  Lord,  the  affairs  of  the  ladies  are 
ext  to  those  of  state. 

Fies.  Without  a  doubt,  and  these  especially. 
3ut  for  what  purpose  are  these  papers  ? 

Moor.  To  remove  one  plague  by  another. 
Chese  powders  the  Signora  gave  me,  to  mix  one 
ivery  day  with  your  wife's  chocolate. 

Fies.    Gave  thee  ? 
'!  Moor.    Donna  Julia,  Countess  Imperiali — 

Fies.  If  thou  liest,  rascal,  I'll  hang  thee  up 
ilive  in  irons  at  the  weathercock  of  the  Lorenzo 
Dwer,  where  the  wind  shall  whirl  thee  nine 
jimes  round  with  every  blast — The  powders  ? 

Moor.    I  am  to  give  your  wife,    mix'd  with 
er  chocolate — So  Donna  Julia  Imperiali  order- 
ed me. 

Fies.  Monster!  monster  ! —This  lovely  crea- 
ure  ! — Is  there  room  for  so  much  hell  within  a 
i-male  bosom  ?  And  I  forgot  to  thank  thee,  hea- 
enly  Providence,  that  hast  frustrated  it  through 
uch  a  devil.  Wondrous  are  thy  ways  (To  the 
Ioor.J  Swear  to  me  to  obey,  and  keep  this 
ecret. 

Moor.  Very  well.  That  I  can  easily  do — she 
aid  me  ready  money. 

Fies  This  note  invites  me  to  her.  I'll  be  with 
ou,   Madam,   and  bring  you  hither.  Well 


fiesco. 


Act  III. 


now  haste  thee,  and  call  together  the  conspira- 
tors. 

Moor.  This  order  I  anticipated,  and  there- 
fore at  my  own  risk  appointed  every  one  to  come 
at  ten  o'clock  precisely. 

Fies.    I  hear  the  sound  of  footsteps,  they  are 
here.    Fellow,  thy  villany  deserves  a  gallows  of 
its  own,  on  which  no  son  of  Adam  was  ever  yet  j 
suspended.    Wait  in  the  antichamber,  till  I  call 
for  thee. 

Moor.  The  Moor  has  done  his  work — The 
Moor  may  go.  ( Exit, 

Scene  V.— -Fiesco,  Vereina,  Bourgognino,  < 

Calcagno,  Sacco.  I 

Fies.  The  tempest  is  approaching  ;  the  clouds 
rush  together.  Advance  with  caution.  Let  all 
the  doors  be  lock'd. 

Ver.    Eight  chambers  have  I  made  fast  behind 
me.    Suspicion  cannot   come  within  a  hundred  . 
steps  of  us. 

Bourg.    Here  is  no  traitor,  unless  our  fear  be- 
come one. 

Fies.  Fear  cannot  pass  my  threshold.  Wel- 
come he,  whose  mind  remains  the  same  as  yes- 
terday.   Be  seated — 

Bourg.  I  do  not  like  to  sit  in  cold  deliberation, 
when  aclion  calls  upon  me. 

Fies.    Genoese,  this  hour  is  eventful. 

Ver.  Thou  has  challeng'd  us  to  propose  a 
plan  for  the  dethroning  of  the  tyrant.  Demand 
of  us—- -we  are  here  to  answer  thee. 

Fies.  First,  then,  a  question,  which  as  it  comes 
so  late,  you  may  think  strange — Who  is  to  fall 

Bourg.    The  tyrants. 

Fies.  Well  spoken.  The  tyrant.  I  entreat  | 
you  weigh  will  the  importance  of  the  word — He  I 
who  but  pretends  to  trample  on  the  liberties  of  I 


Act  111. 


FIE5C©. 


73 


Genoa — who  has  it  in  his  power — who  else  should 
3e  the  tyrant  ? 

Ver.  The  first  I  hate,  I  fear  the  latter.  Let 
\ndreas  Doria  fall. 

Cal.  Andreas  ?  The  old  Andreas  !  who  per- 
laps  to-morrow  may  pay  the  debt  of  nature — 

Sacco.    Andreas  ? — That  mild  old  man  ! 

Fies.  Formidable  is  that  old  man's  mildness, 
3  my  friend — the  brutality  of  Gianettino  only 
leserves  contempt.  "  Let  Andreas  fall."  There 
spoke  thy  wisdom,  Verrina 

Bourg.  The  chain  of  iron  and  the  cord  of  silk, 
dike  are  bonds.    Let  Andreas  perish.  * 

Fies.  The  sentence  then  is  past  upon  the 
incle  and  the  nephew.  Sign  it — (They  oil  Sign. J 
The  question  who  is  settled. — How,  must  be 
T|iext  determined.  Speak  first,  Calcagno. 
1  Cal.  We  must  execute  it,  either  as  soldiers 
>r  assassins.  The  first  is  dangerous,  because  we 
jnust  have  many  confidants.  'Tis  also  doubtful, 
>ecause  the  people's  hearts  are  not  all  for  us.  To 
i6l  the  second  we  have  five  good  daggers.  Two 
lays  hence,  high  mass  will  be  performed  in  the 
-.orenzo  church — both  the  Dorias  will  be  present, 
n  the  house  of  God,  even  a  tyrant's  cares  are 
ull'd  to  sleep. — I  have  done. 

[  Fies.  Calcagno,  your  plan  is  politic,  but  'tis 
ietestable.  Raphael  Sacco,  yours  ? 
I  Sacco.  Calcagno's  reasons  please  me,  but  the 
neans  he  chooses,  my  mind  revolts  at.  It  were 
•etter,  Fiesco,  that  you  should  invite  the  uncle 
.nd  the  nephew  to  a  feast,  where  encircled  by 
epublicans  they  might  receive  their  death  either 
ipon  the  dagger's  point,  or  from  a  draught  of 
'yprian  wine.  This  method  is  at  least  convenient. 

Fies.  Ah,  Sacco  !  What  if  the  wine,  their 
ying  tongues  shall  taste,    become  for  us  tor» 


ii.) 


Q 


7*4  FIE  SCO.  Act  III 

ments  of  burning  pitch  in  hell  ? — Away  with  thi: 
advice  !  Speak  thou,  Verrina. 

Ver.  An  open  heart  scorns  a  dissembling 
countenance.  Assassination  degrades  us  to  ban 
ditti.  The  hero  advances  sword  in  hand.  I  pro 
pose  to  give  aloud  the  signal  of  revolt,  and  boldl) 
rouse  the  patriots  of  Genoa  to  vengeance. 

Bourg.    And  with  armed  hand  wrest  Fortune's 
favors  from  her.    This  is  the  voice  of  honor. 
^Fies.    And  mine.  Shame  on  you,    Genoese  !  1 
( to  Sacco  and  Calcagno) — Fortune  has  alre\d) 
done  too  nmch  for  us,  let  something  be  our  own  & 
Therefore  open  revolt   1 — And  that,  Genctese. 
this  very  night — 

CaL  What  !  To-night  !  The  tyrants  are  yell 
too  powerful,  our  force  too  small. 

Sacco,  To-night  1  And  nought  prepared  ?  Th<l 
day  declines. 

Fies,  Your  doubts  are  reasonable,  but  reacl 
these  papers — (he  gives  them  Gianettino'j  pa  I 
pers.)  Now,  farewell  thou  proud  and  naught)  1 
star  of  Genoa,  that  didst  seem  to  fill  the  wholt  I 
horizon  with  thy  brightness.  Knewest  thou  not! 
that  the  majestic  sun  himself  must  quit  the  hea  I 
vens,  and  yield  his  sceptre  to  the  radiant  moon  1 
Farewell,  thou  star,  Doria  1 

JBourg.    This  is  horrible. 

CaL     Twelve  victims  at  a  blow  ! 

Ver.    To  morrow  in  the  senate-house  ! 

Bourg.    Give  me  these  papers,  and  I  will  rick 
with  them  through  Genoa,  holding  them  up  tel 
view.    The  very  stones  will  rise  in  mutiny,  anc  1 
even  the  dogs  will  howl  against  the  tyrant. 

All.  Revenge  1  Revenge  !  Revenge  ! — Thi*  j 
very  night  ! 

Fies.  Now  you  have  reach'd  the  point.  Atl 
sun-set  I  will  invite  hither  the  principal  malcon- 1 
tents — all  those  that  stands  upon  the  bloody  Ustl 


III,  FIESCO.  75 


>f  Gianettino.  Besides,  the  Sauli,  the  Gentili, 
Vivaldi,  Vesodimari,  all  mortal  enemies  of 
he  house  of  Doria  ;  but  whom  the  tyrant  forgot 

0  fear.  They,  doubtless,  will  embrace  my  plan 
vith  eagerness. 

Bourg,    I  doubt  it  not. 

Fies.  Above  all  things,  we  must  render  our- 
selves masters  of  the  sea.  Gallies  and  seamen  I 
lave  ready.  The  twenty  vessels  of  the  Dorias 
itre  dismantled,  and  may  be  easily  surprised. 
The  entrance  of  the  inner  harbour  must  be  blcck'd 
ip,  all  hope  of  flight  cut  off.  If  we  secure  thia 
ooint,  all  Genoa  is  in  our  power. 

1  Ver.  Doubtless. 

I  Fies,  Then  we  must  seize  the  strongest  posts 
n  the  city,  especially  the  gate  of  St.  Thomas, 
fhich,  leading  to  the  harbour,  connects  our  land 
nd  naval  forces.  Both  the  Dorias  must  be  sur- 
ris'd  within  their  palaces,  and  kilPd.  The  bells 
ust  toll,  the  citizens  be  call'd  upon  to  side  with 
>,  and  vindicate  the  liberties  of  Genoa.  If  For- 
une  favor  us,  you  shall  hear  the  rest  in  the  senate. 
Ver,    The  plan  is  good.   Now  for  the  distribu- 

of  our  parts. 
Fies,    Genoese,  you  choose  me,  of  your  own 
;cord,  as   chief  of  the  conspiracy.    Will  you 
bey  my  farther  orders  ? 
Ver,    As  certainly  as  they  shall  be  the  best. 
Fies,    Verrina,  dost  thou  know  the  principle 
all  warlike  enterprise  ?  Instruct  him,  Genoese, 
is  subordination.    If  your  will  be  not  subjecV 
i  to  my  own — Observe  me  well — If  I  be  not  the 
ead  of  the  association,  I  am  no  more  a  member. 

Ver,    A  life  of  freedom  is  well  worth  some 
ours  of  slavery.    We  obey. 
Fies,    Then  leave  me  now.    Let  one  of  you 
xonnoitre  the  city,    and    inform  me  of  the 
ength  or  weakness  of  the  several  posts.  Let 


76 


fiesco; 


Act  III 


another  find  out  the  watch-word.  A  third  must 
see  the  gallies  are  prepared.  A  fourth  conduct 
the  two  thousand  soldiers  into  my  palace-court. 
I  myself  will  make  all  preparations  here  for  the 
evening,  and  pass  the  interval  perhaps  in  play. 
At  nine  precisely  let  all  be  at  my  palace  to  hear 
my  final  orders- — 

Ver.    I  take  the  harbour. 

Bourg.    I  the  soldiers. 

CaL    I'll  learn  the  watch-word. 

Sacco.    I'll  reconnoitre  Genoa.  ( Exeunt  , 

Scene  VI. — Fiesco,  Moor. 

Pies*    Did  they  not  struggle  against  the  word 
subordination,   as  the  insect  against  the  needle  i 
which  transfixes  it  ?  Eut  'tis  too  late,  republicans.  J 

Moor,    My  Lord — 

Fies.  (Giving  him  a  paper.)  Invite  all  those  i 
whose  names  are  written  here,  to  see  a  play  this  I 
evening  at  my  palace 

Moor.  Perhaps  to  act  a  part — and  pay  the  ad-jl 
mittance  with  their  heads. 

Fies.  When  that  is  over,  I'll  no  longer  detain  1 
thee  here  in  Genoa.  (Going,  throws  himam 
purse.)  This  is  thy  last  employment.  f£x«rJl 

Scene  VII. — Moor  alone. 

(Taking  up  the  purse.)  Are  we  then  on  these  I 
terms  ? — u  1  will  detain  thee  in  Genoa  no  longer"  | 
— That  is  to  say,  translated  from  the  Christian  I 
language  into  my  heathen  tongue,  "  When  I  J 
am  Duke,  I  shall  hang  up  my  friend  the  Moor  I 
upon  a  Genoese  gallows." — Hum  ! — He  fears,  1 
because  I  know  his  tricks,  my  talk  may  bring  | 
his  honor  into  danger,  when  he  is  Duke. — When  1 
he  is  Duke  ?  Hold,  master  Count  !  That  event 
remains  to  be  considered.  Ah  !  old  Doria,  thy  I 
life  is  in  my  hands — Thou  art  lost,  unless  I  warn  I 


Act  III. 


FIESCO. 


77 


thee  of  thy  danger.  Now  if  I  go  and  discover  the 
plot,  I  save  the  Duke  of  Genoa  no  less  than  his 
existence  and  his  dukedom,  and  gain  at  least  this 
hat  full  of  gold  for  my  reward — But  stay,  friend 
Hassan,  thou  art  going  on  a  foolish  errand.  Sup- 
pose this  scene  of  riot  is  prevented,  and  nothing 
but  good  is  the  result — Psha  !  what  a  cursed 
trick  my  avarice  would  then  have  play'd  me  I 
Come,  Devil,  help  me  to  make  out  what  promises 
:he  greatest  mischief,  to  cheat  Fiesco,  or  to  give 
.ip  Doria  to  the  dagger.  If  Fiesco  succeeds,  then 
lienoa  may  prosper — Away  !-— That  must  not  be* 
if  this  Doria  escape,  then  all  remains  as  'twas 
before,  and  Genoa  is  quiet — That's  still  worse. 
\ye,  but  to  see  these  rebels'  heads  upon  the 
>lock  ! — Hum  ! — On  the  other  hand,  'twould  be 
utilising  to  behold  the  illustrious  Dorias  in  this 
j|:vening's  massacre  the  victims  of  a  rascally 
Moor — No — This  doubtful  question  a  Christian 
night  perhaps  resolve,  but  'tis  too  deep  a  riddle 
or  my  Moorish  brains.  I'll  go  propose  it  to  some 
earned  man.  (Exit. 

!  jcene  VIII. — An   apartment  in  the  house  of  the 
Countess  Imperi all 

.  fuLiA,  in  a  disluibille.    Gi ansttiko  enters,  agi_ 
tated. 

y:  Gian.    Good  evening,  sister- 

Julia.  It  must  be  something  extraordinary, 
;  vhich  brings  the  Prince  of  Genoa  to  his  sister. 

Gian.  Sister,  you  are  continually  surrounded 
>y  butterflies,  and  I  by  wasps*  How  is  it  possi- 
de,  that  we  should  meet  ?  Let  us  sit  down. 

Julia.    You  almost  excite  my  curiosity. 

Gian.    When  did  Fiesco  visit  you  last  ? 

Julia  A  strange  question  !  — As  if  I  burdened 
ay  memory  with  such  trifles. 

Gian.    However,  you  must  tell  me. 


'3  riEsco.  Jet  III. 

J  alia.    Well — He  was  here  yesterday. 
Gian.    And  behaved  without  reserve  ? 
Julia,     As  usual. 

Gian.    As  much  a  coxcomb  as  ever  ? 
Julia,    Brother  ! 

Gian.    I  say — as  much  a  coxcomb — 

Julia.    — Sir  !— What  do  you  take  me  for  ? 

Gian.    — For  a  mere  woman,  wrapt  up  in  her 

nobility.    This  in  confidence.    No  one   is  by  to 

hear  us. 

Julia.  "  In  confidence  !" — Impertinent  !  You 
presume  upon  the  credit  of  your  uncle.  "  No  one 
by  to  hear  us  I" 

Gian.  Don't  be  angry,  my  dear.  I'm  pleased 
to  hear  that  Fiesco  is  still  a  coxcomb.  That's 
what  I  wished  to  know.    Your  servant — (Going.) 

Scene  IX. — The  Former,  Lomellino 

Lorn.  Pardon  my  boldness,  gracious  Lady. 
(To  Gianettino.)  Certain  affairs  which  cannot 
be  delayed— 

(Gianettino  takes  him  aside.  Julia  sits  down 
angrily  at  the  piano-forte,  and  plays  an  allegro. J  .  A 

Gian,  (To  Lomellino.)  Is  every  thing  pre- 
pared for  to-morrow  ? 

Lorn,  Every  thing,  Prince — But  the  courier, 
who  was  dispatched  this  morning  to  Levanto,  is 
not  yet  returned,  nor  is  Spihola  arrived.  Should 
he  be  intercepted — I'm  much  alarmed — 

Gian.  Fear  nothing.  You  have  that  list  at  hand  I 

Lorn.  My  Lord — The  list  ?— I  do  not  know — 
I  think  'tis  left  at  home. 

Gian.  Well — Would  that  Spinola  were  but 
here.  Fiesco  will  be  found  dead  in  his  bed.  I 
have  taken  measures  for  it. 

Lorn.    But  it  will  cause  a  great  confusion. 

Gian.  In  that  lies  our  security.  Common 
crimes  but  move  the  blood,  and  stir  it  to  re- 
venge :  atrocious  deeds  freeze  it  with  terror,  and 


ct  UL 


fiesco. 


79 


mihilate  the  faculties  of  man.  You  know  the 
bled  power  of  Medusa's  head — They  who  but 
>oked  on  it  were  turned  to  stone.  To  animate  this 
one  requires  no  common  effort. 

Lorn.    Have  you  informed  the  Countess  of  it  ? 

Gian.  Peace  !  We  must  treat  more  tenderly  her 
lachment  to  Fiesco.  When  the  fruit  is  gone, 
le  flavor  will  be  soon  forgotten.  Come — I  ex- 
ecl  this  evening  troops  from  Milan,  and  must 
ive  orders  at  the  gates  for  their  reception.  (To 

lia.J — Well,  sister  ;  has  the  music  charmed 
way  your  anger  ? 

Julia*  Go  1  You're  a  rude,  unmanner'd  creature. 

(Gianettino  going,  meets  Fiesco. J 

Scene  X.-—T/z<?  Former,  Fiesco. 

i  Gian.    Ha  ! 
lies.    Prince,   you  spare  me  a  visit,  which  I 
iist  now  proposed  to  pay. 

I  Gian.  And  I,  too,  Count,  am  pleased  to  meet 
ou  here. 

Fies.  ("Approaching  Julia  respectfully. J  Your 
harms,  Signora,  always  surpass  expectation. 

Julia.  Psha  !  that's  a  doubtful  compliment — 
Sit — I'm  in  a  dishabille — Excuse  me,  Count — 
{■Going.  J 

I  Ties.    Stay,  beauteous  Lady.   An  undress  best 
ccomes  the  female  form.    Permit  me  to  un- 
•ose  these  tresses. 

Julia.  You  men  are  always  apt  to  cause  con- 
lsion. 

Fies.  (With  a  smile  to  Gianettino.)  In  dress, 
i  in  the  state — Is  it  not  so  ?  (To  Julia.)  This 
band  too  is  awkwardly  put  on.  Your  Laura's 
rill  may  strike  the  eye,  but  cannot  reach  the 
^art.  Let  me  arrange  it — ( She  sits  down,  he 
gulates  her  dress.) 

Gian.    ( Aside  to  Lomellino.J  Poor  fellow  ! 


80 


FIESCO. 


Fies.  (Engaged  about  her  dress.)  Surely 
Countess,  this  will  be  a  pattern  to  all  the  ladie 
in  Genoa.  ( Leading  her  to  a  glass.  May  I  hav< 
the  honor,  Signora,  of  attending  you  abroad  ? 

Julia.  Dissembling  flatterer  ! — I've  a  head-ache 
and  will  stay  at  home — 

Fies.  Pardon  me,  Countess.  You  may  be  s< 
cruel,  but  certainly  you  will  not. — To-day  a  com 
pany  of  Florentine  comedians  arrived  at  my  pal 
ace.  Most  of  the  Genoese  ladies  will  be  pre 
sent  this  evening  at  their  performance,  and  I  an 
uncertain,  whom  to  place  in  the  chief  box,  with 
out  offending  others.  There  is  but  one  expedi 
tnt — ( making  a  low  bow.)  If  you  would  condes 
cend,  Signora —  , 

Julia.  (Confused^  retiringto  aside  apartment.)— 
Laura  ! 

Gian.  ( Approaching  Fiesco.J  Count,  you  re 
member  an  unpleasant  circumstance — • 

Fies.    I  hope  we've  both  forgot  it.    The  acti 
ons  of  men  are  regulated  by  their  knowledge  o'; 
each  other.    It  is  my  fault,  that  you  know  me  sc 
imperfectly. 

Gian.  At  least,  I  shall  never  think  of  it  with 
out  begging  your  pardon  from  my  inmost  soul 

Fies*  Nor  I,  without  forgiving  you  from  mj 
inmost  soul. — ( Julia  returns,  her  dress  a  littl 
altered. ) 

Gian.  Count,  I  just  now  recollect  that  you  an 
going  to  cruise  against  the  Turks — 

Fies.  This  evening  we  weigh  anchor.  On  tha 
account  I  had  some  apprehensions,  from  whicl 
my  friend  Doria's  kindness  may  deliver  me. 

Gian.  Most  willingly.  Command  my  utmos' 
influence. 

Fies.  The  circumstance  might  cause  a  con 
course  toward  the  harbour,  and  about  my  palace 
which  the  Duke  your  uncle  might  misinterpret. 


let  JIT. 


FIESCO. 


8  1 


Gian.  I'll  manage  that  for  you.  Continue  your 
reparations,  and  may  success  attend  your  enter- 
rise  !  ^ 

Ties,    I'm  much  obliged  to  you. 

cene  XI. — The  Former.    A  German  of  the 

Body  Guard* 
Gian*    What's  the  matter  ? 

Ger.  Passing  by  the  gate  of  St.  Thomas,  I 
bserved  a  number  of  armed  soldiers  hastening 
ward  the  harbour.  The  gallies  of  the  Count 
iesco  were  preparing  to  put  to  sea- 

Gian.  Is  that  all  ?  Trouble  yourself  no  more 
bout  it. 

Ger,  Very  well.  From  the  convent  of  the  Ca- 
uchins  came  also  some  suspicious  people.  They 
ole  cautiously  across  the  market-place.  From 
leir  appearance  I  should  suppose  them  soldiers. 

Gian.  How  officious  is  this  blockhead  I— .(To 
omellino,  aside. J — These  are  undoubtedly  my 
lilanese. 

Ger.  Does  your  Grace  command,  that  they 
hall  be  arrested  ? 

Gian.    ( Aloud  to  Lomellino.  J — Look  to  them, 

omellino. — (To  the  Germ  an.  )  Begone  ! — 'Tis 
-  lwell. — ( Aside  to  Lomellino.)  Bid  that  German 
?ast  be  silent.  (Exeunt  Lomellino  German.) 

Fies.  (In  another  part  of  the  room  with  Julia 
-looks  toward  Gi anettino.J  Our  friend  Doria 
?ems  displeased.    May  I  know  the  reason  ? 

Gian.  It's  no  wonder— So  troubled  as  I  am 
ith  these  eternal  messages.  (Exit  hastily. J 

Fies.  The  play  awaits  us  too,  Signora.  May  I 
ffer  you  my  hand  ? 

Julia.  Stay,  let  me  take  my  cloak.  I  hope 
is  not  a  tragical  performance.  They  always 
uint  me  in  my  dreams. 

Fies.  Oh  ! — 'Twill  excite  immoderate  laughter, 

END   OF   THE    THIRD  ACT. 


88 


FIESCO. 


Act  IV 


A  C  T  IF. 


Scene  \.— .Night.  The  court  of  Fiesco's  palace, 
The  lamps  lighted.  Persons  carrying  in  arms,  / 
wing  of  the  palace  illuminated.  An  heap  of  armi 
on  one  side  of  the  stage. 

Bourgognino  leading  a  band  of  soldiers, 
Bourg.  Haiti  let  four  centinels  be  stationed  a1 
the  great  gate.  Two  at  every  door  of  the  palace, 
(  The  centinels  take  their  posts. )  Let  every  one. 
that  chuses,  enter,  but  none  depart.  If  any  one 
attempt  to  force  his  way,  run  him  through  !  (Goes 
with  the  rest  into  the  palace.  The  centinels  walk  up 
and  down.    A  pause.) 

Scene  II.-— Zenturione  entering, 

Centinels  at  the  gate.    Who  goes  there  ? 

Zent,  A  friend  of  Lavagna.  ( Goes  across  the 
court  to  the  door  of  the  palace  on  the  right,  J 

Centinel  there.    Back  ! 
(^Zenturione  starts,  and  goes  to  the  door  on  the 
left,) 

Centinel  on  the  left.    Back  ! 

Zent,  (Stands  still  with  surprise,  A  pause.  Then 
to  the  Centinel  on  the  left,)  My  friend,  which  is 
the  way  to  the  theatre  ? 

Centinel.    I  don't  know. 

Zent,     (Walks  up  and  down  with  increasing  sur- 
prise— then  to  the  Centinel  on  the  right.)  My  friend, 
'  when  dose  the  play  begin  ? 
Centinel.    I  don't  know. 

Zent.  ( Perceives  the  weapons  alarmed.)  Friend, 
what  mean  these  ? 

Centinel.  I  don't  know. 
Zent.    Strange  ! 

Centinels  at  the  gate.    Who  goes  there  ? 


ict  IV. 


FIESCG. 


83 


Scene  III. — The  Former,  Zibo. 

Zibo.  A  friend  of  Lavagna. 

Zent.  Zibo,  where  are  we  ? 

Zibo*  What  mean  you  ? 

Zent.  Look  around  you,  Zibo  ! 

Zibo*  Where  ?— What  ? 

Zent.  All  the  doors  are  guarded  ! 

Zibo,  Here  are  arms — 

Zent.  No  one,  that  will  answer — 

Zibo.  'Tis  strange ! 

Zent.  What  is  it  o'clock  ? 

Zibo.  Past  eight. 

Zent,  How  cold  it  is  ! 

Zibo.  Eight  was  the  hour  appointed. 

Zent.  Things  don't  go  right  here. 

TLibo.  Fiesco  means  to  jest  with  us— 

Zent,  To-morrow  will  be  the  ducal  election. 
,'ibo,  things  don't  go  right  here. 

Zibo,  Hush  !  Hush  ! 

Zent,  The  right  wing  of  the  palace  is  full  of 
ghts. 

|  Zibo.  Do  you  hear  nothing  ? 

I  Zent,  A  confused  murmuring  within— and— 

i  Zibo,  The  sound  of  clattering  arms— 

Zent,  Horrible  !  Horrible  1 

\  Zibo,  A  carriage — It  stops  at  the  gate, 
i  Centinels  at  the  gate*    Who  goes  there  ? 

ciene     IV  —  The  Former,   Four  of    the  As- 
s erato  Family* 

Asser.    A  friend  of  Fiesco. 
Zibo*    They  are  the  four  Asserati. 
Zent.    Good  evening  friends  ! 
Asser.    We  are  going  to  the  play. 
Zibo,  A  good  journey  to  you  i 
Asser.    Don't  you  go  with  us  ? 


ElESCO. 


Zent.    Walk  on.    We'll   only  take  the 
awhile  here. 

Asser.  'Twill  soon  begin.  Come!  (Going,) 
Centinel.    Back  ! 

Asser.     What  does  this  tend  to  ? 
Zent.    (Laughing.)    To  keep    you  from  th 
palace. 

Asser.    Here's  some  mistake—- 

Zibo.    That's  plain  enough. 

( Music  is  heard  in  the  right  wing.) 

Asser.  Do  you  hear  the  symphony  ?  Thi 
comedy  is  going  to  begin. 

Zent.  I  think  it  has  begun,  and  we  are  her 
to  act  the  fools. 

Zibo.    I'm  not  too  warm— I'll  hasten  home 

Asser.    Arms  here  ? 

Zibo.    Poh  ! — Mere  play-house  articles. 

Zent.  Shall  we  stand  waiting,  like  ghost 
upon  the  banks  of  Acheron.  Come,  let  us  IE 
tavern  !  ( All  six  go  toward  the  gate.) 

Centinels.    ( Calling  out  loudly.)  Back  ! — Back 

Zent.    'Sdeath  !  We  are  caught. 

Zibo.    My  sword  shall  open  a  passage — 

Asser.  Put  it  up.  The  Count's  a  man  o 
honor. 

Zibo.    We  are  betrayed — The  comedy  was 
bait  to  catch  us,  and  we're  entrapp'd. 

Asser.    Heaven  forbid  !  I  tremble  for  the  event 

Scene    V. —  The    Former — Verrina,  Saccc 
and  Nobles. 

Centinels.    Who  goes  there  ? 

Ver.  Friends  of  the  house.  (Seven  Noble 
enter  with  him.) 

Zibo.  These  are  his  confidants.  Now  all  wi! 
be  explained. 

Sacco.  ( In  conversation  with  Verrina.)  'Tis  a 
I  told  you.  Lascaro  is  on  guard  at  the  St.  Thorn? 


ict  IV. 


FIESCO. 


Z5 


late,  the  best  officer  of  Doria,  and  blindly  devot> 
d  to  him. 
Ver.    I'm  glad  of  it. 

Zibo.  (To  Verrina.)  Verrina,  you  come 
pportunely  to  clear  up  the  mystery. 

Ver.    How  so  ?  What  mean  you  ? 

Zent.    We  are  invited  to  a  comedy, 

Ver.    Then  we  are  going  the  same  way. 

Zent.  Yes — The  way  of  all  flesh.  You  see 
:ie  doors  are  guarded. — Why  guard  the  doors  ? 

Zibo.    Why  these  centinels  ? 
i  Zent.   We  stand  here  criminals  beneath  the 
allows. 

Ver.   The  Count  will  come  himself. 
Zent.    'Twere  best,  that  he  made  haste.  My 
atience  begins  to  fail. 

\All  the  Nobles  walk  up  and  down   in  the  back- 
ground.) 

JSourg.  ( Coming  out  of  the  palace,  £<?  Verrina.) 
"ow  goes  it  in  the  harbour  ? 

Ver.    They're  all  got  safe  on  board. 

Bourg.    The  palace  is  full  of  soldiers, 

Ver.    'Tis  almost  nine. 

Bourg.    The  Count  is  long  in  coming. 

Ver.  And  yet  too  quick  to  gain  his  wishes-*- 
ourgognino  ! — There  is  a  thought,  which  free^ 
■s  me. 

Bourg.    Father,  be  not  too  hasty. 
\\Ver.    It  is  impossible  to  be  too  hasty,  where 

flay  is  fatal.  I  must  commit  my  second  mur- 
■T,  to  justify  the  first. 

Bourg.    But — When  must  Fiescp  fall  ? 

Ver.    When  Genoa  is  free. 

I Centinels.    Who  goes  there  ? 
Scene  VI. — The  Former,  Fiesco. 
Fies.  A  friend — (The  Nobles  bow — The  Cen 
nels  present  their  arms.)  Welcome  mv  worth 
OL.        II.)  R 


S6 


FIE5C0. 


guests !  You  must  have  been  displeased  at  mj 
long  absence — Pardon  me. — (In  a  low  voice  u\ 
Yekrina.J  Ready? 

Ver.    As  you  would  wish. 

Wies.    (  To  Bourgogkino.J    And  you  ? 

Bourg.    Quite  prepared. 

Fies.    (  To  SaccoJ    And  you  ? 

Sacco,    All's  right. 

Fies*    And  Calcagno  ? 

Bourg,    Is  not  yet  arrived. 

Fies.  ( Aloud  to  the  Centinels.)  Make  fast! 
the  gates  ! — ( He  takes  off  his  hat,  and  steps  for* 
ward  with  dignity  toward  the  assembly, J 

My  friends — I  have  invited  you  hither  to  a  play 
—Not  as  spectators,  but  to  ac\  in  it  a  most  im- 
portant part- 
Long  enough  have  we  borne  the  insolence  oi 
Gianettino  Doria,  and  the  usurpation  of  Andreas. 
My  friends,  would  we  deliver  Genoa,  no  time  is 
to  be  lost.  For  what  purpose,  think  you,  are 
those  twenty  gallies,  which  beset  our  harbour? 
For  what  purpose  the  alliances  which  the  Dorias 
have  of  late  concluded?  For  what  purpose  the  fo- 
reign force,  which  they  have  drawn  together, 
even  in  the  heart  of  Genoa  ?  Murmurs  and  exe-i 
crations  avail  no  longer.  To  save  all,  we  must 
hazard  every  thing.  A  desperate  disease  requiresi 
a  desperate  remedy.  Is  there  one  base  enough 
in  this  assembly,  to  own  an  equal  for  his  master? 
— ( Murmurs, J — There  is  not  one,  whose  ances- 
tors did  not  stand  round  the  cradle  of  infant  Ge- 
noa. What — By  all  that's  sacred  1  What  have 
these  two  citizens  to  boast  of,  that  they  should 
urge  their  daring  flight  so  far  above  our  heads? 
(Increasing  murmurs,)  Every  one  of  you  is  loud- 
ly called  upon  to  fight  the  cause  of  Genoa  against 
its  tyrants.  No  one  can  yield  a  hair's  breadth  of 
his  rights,  without  betraying  the  soul  of  the  whole 
state.     ( Interrupted  by  violent  commotions — he  pro? 


Act  IV. 


FIKSCO. 


87 


•eeds.J  You  feel  your  wrongs,  then  every  tiling 
s  gained.  I  have  already  paved  your  way  to  glo- 
•y — Genoese,  will  you  follow  ?  I  am  prepared  to 
ead  you.  Those  signs  of  war  which  you  just 
iow  beheld  with  horror,  must  awaken  your  he- 
•oism.  Your  anxious  shuddering  must  warm  in- 
o  a  glorious  zeal,  that  you  may  unite  your  efforts, 
vith  this  patriotic  band,  to  overthrow  the  tyrant. 
Success  will  crown  the  enterprise,  for  all  ourpre- 
mrations  are  well  arranged.  The  cause  is  just, 
or  Genoa  suffers.  The  attempt  will  render  us 
mmortal,  for  it  is  vast  and  glorious— 

Zent.  Enough— Genoa  shall  be  free  !  Be  this 
>ur  shout  of  onset- against  hell  itself— 

Zibo.  And  may  he,  who  is  not  roused  by  it, 
>ant  at  the  slavish  oar,  till  the  last  trumpet  break 
lis  chains— 

Fies.  Spoken  like  men — Now  you  deserve  to 
mow  the  danger,  that  hung  over  yourselves  and 
ienoa.  (Gives  them  the  papers  of  the  Moor. J 
Lights,  soldiers!  (The  Nobles  crowd  about  the 
ights,  and  read-— Fiesco  aside  to  Verrina.) 
niend,  it  went  as  I  could  wish. 
!  Ver.  Be  not  too  certain.  Upon  the  left  I  saw 
ountenances  that  grew  pale,  and  knees  that  tot- 
tered. 

Zent.  Twelve  senators  ! — Infernal  villany  !  Seize 
ach  a  sword — ( All,  except  two,  eagerly  take  up 
he  weapons,  that  lie  in  readiness. J 
j  Zibo.    Thy  name  too,  Bourgognino,  is  written 
liere. 

Bourg.  Aye,  and  if  Heaven  permit,  it  shall  be 
ritten  to-day  upon  the  throat  of  Gianettino.  ^ 

Zent.    Two  swords  remain — 

Zibo.    Ah  !  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Zent,    Two  amongst  us  have  not  taken  swords 

Asser.  My  brothers  cannot  bear  the  sight  of* 
iood — pray  spare  them — 


88 


FIESCO. 


Ac  n 


'Lent.  What  !  Not  a  tyrant's  blood !  Tea 
them  to  pieces — Cowards  !  Let  the  bastards  b< 
driven  from  the  republic — (Some  of  the  assembly 

attack  the  two  Asserati.J 

Ties.  Cease  !  Shall  Genoa  owe  its  liberty  t< 
slaves  ?  Shall  our  pure  gold  be  debased  by  thi: 
alloy  1  ( He  disengages  them.)  Gentlemen,  yoi 
must  be  content  to  take  up  your  abode  within  mj 
palace,  until  our  business  be  decided.  (To  tiu 
Centinels )  These  are  your  prisoners  :  you  an 
swer  Tor  their  safety.  Guard  them  with  loadec 
arms.  (  They  are  led  off — a  knocking  heard  at  tht 
gate. J 

Ccntinel.    Who  is  there  ? 

CaL  (Without,  eagerly.)  Open  the  gate  1  A 
frie  nd — for  God's  sake  open  ! 

Bourg.  it  is  Calcagno — Heavens  !  What  car 
this  mean  ? 

Ties.    Open  the  gate,  soldiers. 

Scene  VIII. — The  Former,  Calcagno.  I 

CaL  All's  lost !  All's  lost !  Fly  every  one  that 
can  1 

Tourg.    What's  lost  ?  Have  they  flesh  of  brass, 

and  ar  J  our  swords  made  of  rushes  ? 

Fies.  Consider,  Calcagno — An  error  now  is 
fatal. 

CaL  Wc  are  betrayed — Your  Moor,  Lavagna, 
is  the  rascal.  I  come  from  the  senate-house.  He 
had  an  audience  of  the  Duke. 

'ier.  (To  the  Centimels.J  Soldiers,  let  me 
rush  upon  your  halberts.  I  will  not  perish  by 
the^hangman's  hands.  {The  assembly  show  marks 
of  confusion.) 

Fies.  What  are  you  about?  'Sdeath,  Cal- 
cagno ! — Friends,  'tis  a  false  alarm.  {To  Cal- 
cagno.) Woman  that  thou  art,  to  tell  these  boys 


Act  IV. 


FIESCO. 


It  9 


:his  tale. — Thou,  too,  Verrina  ? — and  thou,  Bour- 
gognino?  Whither  would'st  thou  go  ? 

Bourg.  Home — to  kill  my  Bertha — and  then 
return  to  fall  with  thee. 

Fies.  Stay  !  Stay  1  Is  this  the  valour,  that 
must  punish  tyrants  ?  Well  didst  thou  play  thy 
part,  Calcagno.  Did  you  not  perceive,  that  this 
alarm  was  my  contrivance  ?  Speak,  Calcagno— 
Was  it  not  my  order,  that  you  should  put  these 
Romans  to  this  trial  ? 

Ver.  Well,  if  you  can  laugh,  I'll  believe  you 
— or  you  must  be  more  than  mortal-*— 

Fies.  Shame  on  you,  men,  to  fail  in  such  a 
boyish  trial  1  Resume  your  arms — you  must  fight 
most  bravely  to  atone  for  this  disgrace.  {Aside 
[to  Calcagno.)  Were  you  there  yourself? 
I  Cal.  {Low.)  I  made  my  way  among  the  guards, 
to  hear,  as  was  my  business,  the  watch- word 
from  the  Duke.  As  I  was  returning,  the  Moor 
iwas  brought — 

Fies.  {Aloud.)  So  the  old  man  Is  gone  to  bed 
• — We'll  drum  him  out  of  his  feathers — ( Low. J 
Did  he  talk  long  with  the  Duke  ? 
I  Cal.  {Low.)  My  sudden  fright,  and  your  im- 
pending danger,  drove  me  away  in  hasted 
p  Fies.  {Aloud.)  See,  how  our  countrymen  still 
tremble — 

i  Cal.  {Aloud.)  You  should  have  carried  on 
the  jest.  {Low.)  For  God's  sake,  friend,  what 
will  this  artifice  avail  us  ? 

1  Fies.  'Twill  gain  us  time,  and  dissipate  the 
first  panic.  {Aloud.)  Ho  !  bring  wine  here  !  {Low.) 
Did  the  Duke  turn  pale  ?  (Aloud.)  Wellgj^o- 
thers,  let  us  drink  success  to  this  night's  enter- 
tainment!   {Low.)    Did  the  Duke  turn.pale  ? 

Cal.  The  Moor's  first  word  must  have  been 
Conspiracy  ;  for  the  old  man  step'd  back  as  pale  as. 
ELshes. 

a  2 


*0 


FIESCO. 


Act  IK 


Fit"!,  Hum  !  the  devil  is  an  artful  counsellor  : 
the  Moor  was  cunning,  he  betray'd  nothing  till 
the  knife  was  at  their  throat.  Now  he's  indeed 
their  saviour.)  {Wine  is  brought,  he  drinks  to  the 
assembly) — Comrades,  success  i  {A  knocking  is 
heard*) 

Centinels.    Who  is  without  ? 

A  voice.    A  guard  of  the  Dukes.     (The  No- 
bles disperse  about  the  court. J 

Fies.  No,  my  friends.  Be  not  alarm'd — I  ami 
here — Quick  remove  these  arms — Be  men,  I  en-j 
treat  you — This  visit  makes  me  hope,  that  An-' 
dreas  still  doubts  our  plot.  Retire  into  the  pa- 
lace  :  recall  your  spirits.  Soldiers  throw  open 
the  gate  I    (  They  retire ,  the  gates  are  opened.) 

Scene  VIII. — Fiesco     {as  if  coming  from  the\ 
palace.)  Three  German  Soldiers  bringing  the 
Moor,  bound. 

Fies.    Who  called  for  me  ? 

Germans.    Bring  us  to  the  Count. 

Fies.    The  Count  is  here,  who  wants  me  ? 

German*  ( Presenting  his  arms.)  Greeting  from 
the  Duke  !— he  delivers,  up  to  your  Grace,  this- 
Moor  in  chains,  who  hath  basely  slandered  you : 
the  rest  this  note  will  tell. 

Fies.  {Takes  it  with  an  air  of  indifference.)  Have 
J  not  threaten'd  thee  already  with  the  gallies? 
{To  the  German.)  Very  well,  my  friend,  rny 
respecls  to  the  Duke. 

Moor.  {Hallooing  after  them.)  Mine  too-— and 
tell  ^Ihe  Duke,  had  he  not  made  an  ass  his 
mesWiger,  he  would  have  learnt,  that  two  thou- 
sand soldiers  are  concealed  within  these  palace 
"walls. 

{Exeunt  Germans,  the  Nobles  return. 


let  IV. 


FIESCO. 


91 


icENE  IX. — Fiesco,  the  Conspirators,  Moor. 

The  Conspirators,    Ha  !  what  means  this  ? 

Fies.  (Sifter  reading  the  note.)  Genoese,  the 
langer  is  past — but  the  conspiracy  is  likewise  end- 
d— 

Ver.    What ! — Are  the  Dorias  dead  ? 

Fies.  By  heavens  I  I  was  prepar'd  to  encoun- 
er  the  whole  force  of  the  republic,  but  not  this 
low.  This  old  nerveless  man,  with  his  pen,  an- 
ihilates  three  thousand  soldiers.  Doria  over- 
omes  Fiesco ! 

Bourg.    Speak,  Count,  we  are  amaz'd  ! 

Fies.  {Reading.)  "  Lavagna,  your  fate  re- 
embles  mine :  benevolence  is  rewarded  with  in- 
ratitude.  The  Moor  informs  me  of  a  plot :  I 
end  him  back  to  you  in  chains,  and  shall  sleep 
D-night  without  a  guard."  ( He  drops  the  paper- 
he  rest  look  at  each  other, ) 
ij  Ver.    Well,  Fiesco  ? 

Fies,  Shall  Doria  surpass  me  in  magnanimity  ? 
hall  the  race  of  Fiesco  want  this  one  virtue  ? 
Jo,  by  my  life — Disperse — I'll  go  and  own  the 
-hole— 

Ver,  Art  thou  mad  ?  Was  then  our  enterprise 
ome  thievish  a6l  of  villany  ?  Was  it  not  our 
ountry's  cause  ?  Was  Andreas  the  object  of  thy 
atred,  and  not  the  Tyrant  ?  Stay  !  I  arrest  thee 
s  a  traitor  to  thy  country.. 
Conspirators.  Bind  him,  throw  him  down-— < 
Fies.  (Snatching  up  his  sivord,  and  making  ivay 
hrongh  them. J  Peace  !  Who  will  be  the  first 
o  throw  the  cord  around  the  tiger  ? — See,  Gen- 
cse,  I  stand  here  at  liberty,  and  might  depart 
nhurt  :  but  I  will  not  depart.  My  resolution's 
hang'd. 

Bourg.     Have  you  consulted  the  voice  of  duty  ? 

Fies.  Boy,  thou  may'st  learn  from  my  exam- 
ple not  to  dictate  to  me — Peace,  Genoese  1  our 
(  lan  remains  unalter'd.    (To  the  Moor,  whose 


9* 


FIESCO. 


Jet 


cords  he  cuts  with  a  snvord.)  Thou  hast  had 
merit  of  creating  a  noble  act — Fly  !— 

Cal.    What !  shall  that  scoundrel  live, 
has  betray 'd  us  all  ? 

Ftes.  Live — though  he  has  frighten'd  all  o 
you.  Away,  my  lad  !  See,  that  thou  turn  thj 
back  on  Genoa  :  they  might  wish  to  exercis( 
their  bravery  upon  thee. 

Moor.  So  then,  the  devil  does  not  forsake  hi*' 
friends.  Your  servant,  Gentlemen.  I  see  tha i 
Italy  does  not  produce  my  halter  ;  I  must  go  seel 
elsewhere  for  it.  Exit  laugliing 

Scene  X. — Fiesco,  Conspirators.  Enter  So 

VAN  T. 

Servant,  The  Countess  Imperiali  has  alread) 
ask'd  three  times  for  your  Grace. 

Fits.  Ha  !  then  the  comedy  must  indeed  be-i 
gin.  Tell  her  I  come  directly.  Desire  my  wift 
to  hasten  to  the  concert-room,  and  there  remair 
conceaPd  behind  the  tapestry.  (Exit  Servant )  Ir, 
these  papers  your  several  stations  are  appointed 
let  each  but  act  his  part,  the  plan  is  perfect 
Verrma  will  lead  the  forces  to  the  harbour, 
when  the  ships  are  seiz'd,  will  fire  a  shot,  a 
signal  for  the  general  attack.  I  now  leave  y 
upon  important  business  :  when  you  shall  h 
a  bell,  come  all  together  to  my  concert-roo 
Meanwhile  enjoy  my  Cyprian  wine  within.  (  The^ 
depart  into  the  palace.  J 

Scene  XI  Leonora,   Arabella   and  Rosa. 

Leo.    Fiesco  promised  to  meet  me  here,  anc| 
comes  not.    'Tis   past  eleven.    The  sound  o 
arms  and  men  rings  through  the  palace,  and  nc 
Fiesco  comes. 

Rosa.  You  must  conceal  yourself  behind  the 
tapestry — What  can  the  Count  intend  ? 

Leo,    He   directs    me,     and  I  obey.  Whj 


\ci  IV. 


FIESCO. 


93 


hould  I  fear  ?  And  yet  I  tremble,  Arabella, 
ml  my  heart  beats  with  apprehension.  Damsels, 
dt  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  leave  me. 

Arab,  Fear  nothing  :  we  are  too  timid  to  aban- 
Ion  you. 

Leo.  Where'er  I  turn  my  eyes,  strange  shapes 
ppear,  with  hollow  and  distracted  countenances. 
5n  whomsoever  I  call,  they  tremble  like  crimi- 
als,  and  withdraw  from  sight,  into  the  thickest 
loom,  a  fit  retreat  for  guilty  consciences. 
Vhate'er  they  answer,  falls  from  the  trembling 
ongue  in  doubtful  accents.  Oh  Fiesco  1  what 
orrid  business  dost  thou  meditate  !  Ye  heavenly 
li'Owers  !  watch  over  my  Hesco  ! 

Rosa,  Oh  heavens  !  what  noise  is  that  without? 
Arab,    It  is  the  soldier,  who  stands  there  as 
entinel.    ('The  Centinel  without  calls"  Who  goes 
Mere  ?"J 

Leo,  Some  one  approaches.  Quick  !  behind 
he  curtain — ( they  conceal  themselves,) 

cene  XII. — Julia  and  Fiesco,  in  conversation* 

Julia,  Cease,  Count  1  Your  passion  no  longer 
icets  with  an  indifferent  ear  ;  but  fires  the  raging 
lood.  Where  am  I  ?  Nought  but  seducing 
.ight  is  here.  Whither  has  your  artful  conver- 
ation  led  me  ? 

■Fies,  To  this  spot,  where  timid  love  grows 
old,  and  where  emotions   mingle  unrestrained. 

Julia,  Hold,  Fiesco  I  for  Heaven's  sake,  say 
o  more  !  'Tis  the  thick  veil  of  night  alone, 
rbich  covers  the  glowing  crimson  of  my  cheeks, 
lse  would'st  thou  pity  me. 

Fies.  Rather,  Julia,  thy  blushes  would  inflame 
iy  feelings,  and  urge  them  to  their  utmost 
eight.     {Kisses  her  hand  eagerly.') 

Julia,  Thy  countenance  is  glowing  as  thy 
rords.  Ah  !  and  my  own  too  burns  .with  guilty- 
re,  Hence,  I  entreat  thee,  let  us  seek  the  light ! 


9  1 


FIESCO. 


Act  IV 


The  tempting  darkness  might  lead  astray  tlu 
senses,  and  in  the  absence  of  the  modest  day. 
might  stir  them  to  rebellion.  Haste,  I  conjure 
thee,  leave  this  solitude  1 

Fies.    Why  so  alarmed,  my  love  ?  you  kno\i 
your  empire  over  me. 

Julia.  O  man,  eternal  paradox  ?  then  are 
you  truly  conquerors,  when  you  bow  as  captive; 
before  our  self-conceit.  Shall  I  confess,  Fiesco  i 
It  was  my  vice  alone,  that  could  protect  my  vir- 
tue :  it  was  my  pride,  that  sav'd  my  honor 
Thus  far  my  principles  prevailed  :  your  art? 
were  foiled,  until  you  rous'd  my  blood — then  van- 
ish'd  principles — 

Fies.    And  what  loss  was  that  ? 

Julia.  What  loss  !  no  less  than  all,  if  1 
yield  up  my  honor  a  slave  to  thy  caprice. 

Fies.  And  yet,  my  Julia,  where  could'st  thou 
bestow  more  worthily  this  treasure,  than  on  my 
endless  passion  ? 

Julia.  Most  worthily  !  most  unprofitable—^ 
How  long,  Fiesco,  will  this  endless  passion  last? 
But  I've  advane'd  too  far  to  hesitate.  In  my 
charms  I  trusted,  to  captivate  thee.  To  preserve 
thy  love,  I  fear  they'll  prove  too  weak.  Alas! 
what  am  I  saying  ! 

Fies.  You  have  urg'd  two  groundless  charges, 
at  once  accusing  your  charms,  and  my  fidelity. 
Which  is  the  greatest  crime  ? 

Julia.  Deceit  is  base.  P'iesco  needs  it  not  to 
gain  his  Julia. — Hear,  Fiesco  1  One  word 
more. — When  we  know  our  virtue  is  in  safety, 
we  are  heroines  ;  in  its  defence,  no  more  than 
children  ;  Furies,  when  we  avenge  it.  Hear  me! 
Should'st  thou  strike  me  to  the  heart  with  cold- 
ness— 

Fies,  Coldness,  coldness  !  Heavens  !  what 
does  the  insatiable  vanity  of  woman  look  for,  if 


ct  IV.  fif.sco.  59 

he  even  doubt  the  man,  that  prostrate  in  the  dust 
dores  her  ? — Ha  !  my  spirit  is  awaken'd  :  my 
yes  at  length  are  opened. — What  was  th're  migh- 
f  sacrifice  I  Man  dearly  purchases  a  woman's 
ighest  favors  by  the  slightest  degradation. — Take 
ourage,  Madam  :  you  are  safe. 

Julia,    Count  !  what  mean  you  ? 

Fies.  True,  Madam — You  judge  most  rightly  ; 
re  both  have  risk'd  our  honor.  I  will  await  your 
resence  with  my  guests.  (Going.) 

Julia,  Stay,  art  thou  mad  ?  Must  I  then  de- 
lare  a  passion,  which  the  whole  race  of  man, 
pon  their  knees,  in  tears,  should  not  extort  from 
ly  determined  pride  ?  Alas  !  in  vain  the  dark- 
ess  strives  to  hide  the  blushes,  which  betray  my 
uilt — Fiesco — I  wound  the  pride  of  all  my  sex — . 
ly  sex  will  all  detest  me — Fiesco — I  adore  thee— 

Fies.  {Laughing.)  That  I  am  sorry  for,  Sig- 
mra—  {rings  the  bell — draws  the  tapestry,  and  dis- 
\wers  Leonora.)  Here  is  my  wife — A  lovely  wo- 
nan  1  embracing  her.) 

Julia.    (With  a  shriek.) — Unheard  of  treachery ! 

gene  XIII.— 'The    Conspirators,  Ladies, 
Fiesco,  Julia  and  Leonora. 

Leo.    Oh  my  husband,  that  was  too  cruel  ! 

Fies.  A  wicked  heart  deserved  no  less.  I 
>v'd  this  satisfaction  to  your  tears.  (To  the  com* 
my. )  No,  my  friends — I  am  not  wont  to  kindle 
iththe  flames  of  irritation.  The  follies  of  man- 
nd  amuse  me  long  ere  they  excite  my  anger  ; 
it  this  woman  merits  my  whole  resentment, 
ehold  the  poison,  whi  ch  she  had  mingled  for  my 
sonora.  (Shows  the  poison  to  the  company — they 
art  with  horror.) 

Julia.  Good  I  Good,  Very  good,  Sir  !  (Going.) 
Fies.  (Leads  her  back  by  the  arm.)  You  must 
ive    patience,    Madam  ;  something    else  re- 


96  FIE  SCO.  Act  IV 

mains. — My  friends,  perhaps,  would  gladly  learn 
why  I  debased  my  reason  with  the  farce  of  love 
for  this  unworthy  woman. 

Julia.    It  is  not  to  be  borne — But  tremble  ! 
Doria  rules  in  Genoa — And  I  am  his  sister — . 

Fies.  Poor,  indeed,  if  that  be  the  only  sting  ! 
know,  that  Fiesco  of  La^agna  has  changed  the 
diadem  of  your  illustrious  brother  for  a  halter,  > 
and  means  this  night  to  hang  the  thief  of  the  j 
republic.  ( She  is  struck  with  terror — he  continues  j 
with  a  sarcastic  laugh.)  Ha  !  that  was  unexpe£t-  { 
ed.  'Twas  for  this  purpose,  that  I  tried  to  blind  t 
the  eyes  of  the  Doiias.  For  this  I  stoop'd  to  a  \ 
disgusting  passion — (pointing  to  Julia.)  For  j 
this,  I  cast  away  this  precious  jewel — (pointing to  j 
Leonora  ;  )  and  by  the  shining  bait  ensnared  my  j 
prey.  T  thank  you  for  your  complaisance^  Sig-  I 
nora — (to  Julia  ;  )  and  return  the  trappings  of  j 
my  assumed  character.  [Delivers  her  the  minia-  j 
ture  with  a  bow.) 

Leo.  (To  Fie sco.)  She  weeps,  my  Lodovico.il 
May  your  Leonora,  trembling,  entreat  you  ? 

Julia.  Silence,  detested  woman  ! 

Fies.  (To  a  servant.)  Be  alert,  my  friend  :  at-fl 
tend  this  lady.  She  has  a  mind  to  see  my  prison-,  j 
chamber.  See,  that  none  approach  to  incom-  j 
mode  her.  The  night  is  cold  abroad  :  the  storm  I 
which  is  about  to  split  the  stem  of  the  Dorias 
may,  perhaps,  too  rudely  blow  against  her. 

Julia.  Curse  on  thee,  black,  detested  hypo- 
crite !  (To  Leonora.)  Rejoice  not  thou,  in  this 
thy  triumph  !  He  will  destroy  thee  also,  and 
himself.    Despair  !  (Rushing  out.) 

Fies.    (To  the  guests.)  You  were  witnesses  :  let 
your  report  in  Genoa  preserve  my  honor.    ( To 
the  Conspirators.)    Call  on  me,   as  soon  as  j 
the  cannon  giv^es  the  signal.    {All  the  guests  re-  i 
tire.) 


Act  IK 


F1ESC0. 


9t 


Scene  XIV. — Leonora  and  Fiesco. 

Leo.  Fiesco !  Fiesco  !  I  understand  but  half 
your  meaning  ;  yet  I  begin  to  tremble. 

Fies.  Leonora  !  I  once  saw  you  yield  the  place 
of  honor  to  another  female.  I  saw  you  in  the 
presence  of  the  nobles,  receive  the  second  com- 
pliment. Leonora,  that  sight  tormented  me.  I 
resolv'd  it  ne'er  should  be  again — Nor  ever  shall 
it  be.  Do  you  hear  the  warlike  noise,  which 
echoes  through  my  palace  ?  What  you  suspecl, 
is  true.  Retire  to  rest,  a  Countess — to  morrow 
I  will  hail  you  Dutchess  of  Genoa — 
\   Leo.    O  God  !  My  very  fears  !  I  am  undone— 

Fies,  Let  me  speak  out,  my  love.  Two  of  my 
mcestors  wore  the  triple  crown.  The  blood  of 
:he  Fiescos  flows  not  pure,  unless  beneath  the 
Durple.  Shall  your  husband  only  reflect  a  bor- 
-ow'd  splendor  ?  What  !  shall  he  owe  his  rank 
;o  capricious  chance  alone,  which,  from  the  mon- 
uments of  mouldering  greatness,  has  patch'd  up 
his  Fiesco  ?  No,  Leonora,  I  am  too  proud  to 
iccept  from  others,  what  my  own  merits  may 
ay  claim  to.  This  night,  the  hereditary  titles 
>fmy  ancestors  shall  return  to  deck  their  tombs — 
^avagna's  Counts  exist  no  longer — A  race  of 
f  princes  shall  begin. 

Leo.    I  see  my  husband    fall,    transfix'd  by 
leadly  wounds— I  see  them  bear  towards  me,  my 
msband's  mangled  corpse — The  first—the  only 
||>all  has  struck  Fiesco — 

Fies,  Be  calm,  my  love — No  ball  will  strike 
•  -ae— 

Leo.  Does  Fiesco  so  confidently  challenge 
leaven?  If  in  the  scope  of  countless  possibilities, 
ne  lot  alone  were  adverse  to  thee,  that  one  might 
appen,  and  I  should  lose  my  husband — Think 
bat  thou  venturest  heaven,  Fiesco  ;  and  though 


VOL.  II.) 


S 


98 


FIE  SCO. 


Act  IV 


a  million  chances  were  against  thy  loss,  woulcTs! 
thou  yet  tempt  the  Almighty,  by  risking  on  a  di( 
thy  hopes  of  everlasting  happiness  ?  No,  my  hus  ] 
band — When  thy  whole  being  is  at  stake,  eacl 
throw  is  blasphemy. 

Fits,  Be  not  alarmed.  Fortune  is  more  mj  I 
friend. 

Leo.  Thinkest  thou  so,  Fiesco  ?  behold  th< 
eager  circle  intent  upon  the  agitating  play,  which  I 
they  call  pastime.  Observe  this  sly  deceiver,  For 
tune,  how  she  allures  her  votary  with  gradua  \ 
favours,  till  heated  with  success,  he  turns  t(  I 
rashness,  and  ventures  all  upon  a  single  stake  j 
Then,  in  the  important  moment,  she  forsake:  j 
him,  a  prey  to  wretchedness.  Husband,  thoi  I 
goest  not  to  show  thyself  to  Genoa,  and  be  ador'd—  I 
*Tis  no  slight  task  to  rouse  the  slumbering  mul  j 
titude,  and  turn  them  loose,  like  the  unbridled  steed  J 
before  unconscious  of  his  hoofs.  Trust  not  thes<  I 
rebels.  The  wise  among  them,  even  while  the;  I 
instigate  thy  valour,  fear  it  :  the  vulgar  worshi]  j 
thee,  with  senseless  but  unsteady  adoration.—  I 
Where'er  I  look  Fiesco  is  undone. 

Fies.  To  be  irresolute,  is  the  most  certain  dan 
ger.  He  that  aspires  to  greatness,  must  be  dar 
ing. 

Leo.  Greatness,  Fiesco  !  Alas!  thy  towerini 
spirit  ill  accords  with  the  fond  wishes  of  my  heart 
Should  fortune  favour  thy  attempt — should's 
thou  obtain  dominion — alas  1  I  then  should  be  bu 
the  more  wretched~-Condemn'd  to  misery  if  thoi 
fail — if  thou  succeed  to  misery  still  greater.- 
Here  is  no  choice  but  evil.  Unless  he  gain  th< 
Ducal  power,  Fiesco  perishes — if  I  embrace  thi  1 
Duke,  I  lose  my  husband. 

Fies.    I  understand  you  not. 

Leo.  Ah !  my  Fiesco,  in  the  stormy  atmosl 
phere,  that  surrounds  a  throne,  the  tender  plan  !f 


[Act  iV.  frlKSCO.,  99 

bf  love  must  perish.    The  heart  of  man,  even  of 
Fiesco,  is  not  vast  enough,  for  two  all-powerful 
idols — idols,  so  hostile  to  each  other. — Love  has 
tears,  and  feels  the   tears  of  others.  Ambition 
has  eyes  of  stone,  from  which  no  drop  of  tender- 
ness can  e'er  distil.-    Love   views  creation  with 
neglect,  except  one  favoured  object  :  Ambition, 
with  insatiable  hunger,  rages  amid  the  spoil  of 
mature.    Ambition  changes  the  immense  world 
tself,   into  one  dark  and  horrid   prison-house  : 
Love  paints  in  every  desert,  a  visionary  paradise* 
:  Whenever  thou  would'st  recline  upon  my  bosom, 
[  he  cares  of  empire,   the   rebellion  of  vassals, 
vould  fright  away  repose — If  I  should  throw  my- 
ielf  into  thy  arms,  thy  despot  fears  would  hear  a 
nurderer  rushing  forth  to  strike  thee,  and  urge 
hy  trembling  flight  through  all  the  palace.  Nay, 
lark-ey'd  suspicion  would  at  last  o'erwhelm  even 
lomestic  concord — If  thy  Leonora's  tenderness 
hould  offer  thee    a  refreshing   draught,  thou 
would'st  with  horror  push  away  the  goblet,  and 
all  it  poison. 

Fies,    Leonora,    cease  !    These  thoughts  are 
.readmit 

Leo.  And  yet  the  picture  is  not  finished.  Let 
)ve  be  sacrific'd  to  greatness  ;  let  peace  of  mind 
e  sacrific'd,  if  but  Fiesco  remain  unchang'd.  O 
iod  !  that  thought  is  torture — An  unspotted 
lind  seldom  ascends  the  throne — but  far  more 
eldom,  does  it  wield  the  sceptre  uncorrupted. 
'an  he  know  pity,  who  is  rais'd  above  the  com- 
lon  fears  of  men  ?  Will  he  speak  the  accents 
f  compassion,  whose  words  are  followed  by  the 
mnderbolt  of  law  ?  Prince  Fiesco  !  Those  rash 
rojecls,  that  spurn  the  laws  of  nature,  always 
lldl  as  far  below  the  dignity  they  aspire  to,  as  thejr 
I  lave  tower'd  above  humanity. 


100 


FIESCO. 


Act  I 


Fies.    Leonora,  cease  !  Reflection  is  too  late 
The  bridge  is  rais'd  behind  me — 

Leo,  And  why,  my  husband  !  The  past  alo 
is  hopeless.  Thou  once  didst  swear,  that  all  tl 
projects  vanished  before  my  beauty.  Hypocrite 
thou  hast  foresworn  thyself — or  else  my  charms 
have  early  wither'd.  Ask  thy  own  heart  where 
lies  the  blame  ? — Return,  Fiesco  !  Recall  thy 
wandering  mind  !  Yield  to  my  entreaties  !  Love 
shall  reward  thee.  If  my  heart  cannot  appease 
thy  insatiate  passions,  O  Fiesco,  the  diadem  wi 
be  still  poorer — Come,  I'll  learn  the  inmost  wis 
es  of  thy  soul — W e'll  melt  together  all  the  char 
of  nature,  into  one  kiss  of  love,  to  retain  ft 
ever,  in  these  heavenly  bonds,  the  illustrio 
captive.  As  thy  heart  is  infinite,  so  shall  be  my 
passion.  To  be  the  source  of  happiness  to  a  be- 
ing, who  places  all  its  heaven  in  thee,  Fiesco  !— « 

Fies.  Leonora — what  hast  thou  done  ? — (He 
falls  about  her  neck.)  I  shall  never  more  dare  t$ 
meet  tbe  eyes  of  Genoa's  citizens. 

Leo.  Let  us  fly,  Fiesco  !  Let  us  with  scorn 
reject  these  gaudy  nothings  ;  and  pass  our  happy 
days  only  in  retreats  of  love  !  ( She  presses  him  to 
her  breast  with  rapture.)  Our  souls  serene  as  the 
unclouded  sky,  shall  never  more  be  blacken'd  by 
the  pois'nous  breath  of  sorrow  :  our  life  shall  flow 
harmoniously  as  the  music  of  the  murmuring; 
brook.  (A  cannon-shot  is  heard — Fiesco  disen* 
gages  himself-^-all  the  Con  s  pi  k  a  tors  enter.) 

Scene  XV. 

Conspirators.    The  moment  is  arrived. 

Fies.  (To  Leonora.)  Farewell,  forever,  un- 
less Genoa  to-morrow  be  laid  subject  at  thy  feet. 
( Going  to  rush  out. ) 

Bourg.    The  Countess  faints  ! 

Fies,    Leonora  1  Save  her  1  For  Heaven's  sake 


Act  IV.  FIE  SCO.  102 

save  her  !  (Rosa  and  Arabella  run  to  her  as- 
sistance.) She  lives — She  lives — Now  let  us  -seek 
Doria  !  (Conspirators  rush  out.) 


END  or  THE  FOURTH  ACT* 


102 


FIESCO. 


Act  V. 


a  c  r  v. 

Scene  I. — After  midnight.  The  great  street  of 
Genoa.  A  few  lamps,  almost  extinguished.  In  the 
back-ground  is  seen  the  Gate  of  St.  Thomas, 
which  is  shut.  Men  pass  over  the  stage  with 
lanterns.  The  patrol  go  their  round.  Afterwards, 
every  thing  is  quite,  except  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
which  are  heard  at  a  distance,  rather  tempestuous. 

Fie sco    {armed,    before   the    Doria  palace"),  and 
Andreas. 

Fies.  The  old  man  has  kept  his  word.  The 
lights  are  all  extinguished  in  the  palace — The 
guards  dismissed — I'll  ring.  ( Rings  at  the  gate.) 
Ho  1  Halloo!  Awake.  Doria!  Thou  art  betray'd. 
Awake  !  Halloo  1  Halloo  ! 

And.  ( Appearing  on  the  balcony.)  Who  rings 
there  ? 

Fies.  (In  a  feigned  voice.)  Ask  not,  but  follow 
me  !  Duke,  thy  star  has  set  ;  Genoa  is  in  arms 
against  thee.  The  executioners  are  near,  and 
canst  thou  sleep,  Andreas  ? 

And.  I  remember,  when  the  sea  contended 
with  my  gallant  vessel — when  her  keel  crack'd, 
and  the  wind  split  her  topmast.  Andreas  then 
slept  soundly.    Who  sends  these  executioners  ? 

Fies.  A  man  more  dreadful  than  the  raging 
sea,  of  whom  thou  speakest — John  Louis  of 
Fiesco. 

And.  You  jest,  my  friend.  Come  in  the  day- 
time to  play  your  tricks.  Midnight  suits  them 
badly. 

Fies.    Do  you  mock  your  preserver  ? 

And.  I  thank  him,  and  retire  to  rest.  Fiesco, 
wearied  with  his  rioting,  sleeps  regardless  of 
Doria. 

Fies.   Wretched  old  man  !  Trust  not  the  artful 


Act  V. 


FIESCO. 


103 


serpent.  Its  back  is  deck'd  with  beauteous  col- 
ors ;  but  when  you  would  approach  to  view  it, 
you  are  suddenly  entwined  within  its  deadly  folds. 
You  laugh'd  at  the  perfidious  Moor.  Do  not  des- 
pise the  counsels  of  a  friend.  A  horse  stands 
ready  saddled  for  you — Fly,  while  you  have 
time. 

And.  Fiesco  has  a  noble  mind.  I  never  injur- 
ed him,  and  he  will  not  betray  me. 

Fies,  Fiesco  has  a  noble  mind,  yet  he  betrays 
thee. 

And.  There  is  a  guard,  which  would  defy 
Fiesco's  power,  unless  he  led  against  them  legi- 
ons of  spirits. 

Fies.  That  guard  will  quickly  visit  the  regi- 
ons of  eternity. 

i   And.    Vain  babler  1  Knowest  thou  not,  that 
\ndreas  has  seen  his  eightieth  year,  and  that 
ienoa  beneath  his  rule  is  happy  ?  ( Leaves  the 
i  \alcony. ) 

Fies.  Must  I  then  destroy  this  man,  before  I 
lave  learnt  how  difficult  it  is  to  equal  him  ?— 'Tis 
>ast,  Andreas.  I  have  repaid  the  debt  of  greatness. 
Jestruclion,  take  thy  course  !  ( He  hastens  into 
•  remote  street.  Drums  are  heard  in  all  sides.  A 
ot  engagement  at  the  St.  Thomas  gate.  The  gate 
s  forced,  and  opens  a  prospect  into  the  harbour,  in 
jhich  lie  several  ships  with  lights  on  board. J 

CENE  II. — Gianettino  ( in  a  scarlet  mantle), 
Lomellino — {Servants  going  before  them  with 
torches.) 

Gian.  (Stops. )  Who  was  it,  that  commanded 
le  alarm  to  be  beat  ? 

Lorn.  A  cannon  was  fired  on  board  one  of  the 
allies. 

Gian.  The  slaves  will  break  their  chains. 
7iring  heard  at  the  gate  of  St,  Thomas.) 


104 


FIESCO. 


Lorn,    Hark  ! — A  shot  ! 

Gian.  The  gate  is  open.  The  guards  are 
confusion  !  (To  the  servans.)— Quick,  scow 
drels  1  Light  us  to  the  harbour.  (Proceeding  hasi 
ly  toward  the  gate.) 

Scene  III — The  Former  :  Bourgognino,  ivi 

some  Conspirators,  coming  from  the  gate 
St,  Thomas. 

Bourg.  Sebastian  Lascaro  was  a  brave  soldk 
he  defended  himself  like  a  bear,  till  he  fell. 

Gian,  What  do  I  hear  ? — (to  his  servants 
Stop  ! 

Bourg.    Who  are  those  yonder,  with  torches  ! 

Lorn.  (To  Gianettino.)  Prince,  they  art 
enemies.    Turn  to  the  left. 

Bourg.    Who  goes  there  with  the  torches  I 

Zent.    Stand  !  Your  watch-word  ? 

Gian.  ( Draws  his  sword  fiercely. )  Submis- 
sion, and  Doria — 

Bourg.  Violator  of  the  republic,  and  of  mj 
bride  !  (To  the  Conspirators,  rushing  upo\ 
Gianettino) — Brothers  this  shortens  our  labor 
His  devils  themselves  deliver  him  into  our  hands 
( Runs  him  through  with  his  sword.  J 

Gian.  ( Falling.)  Murder  !  Revenge  me,  Lo 
mellino  ! 

Lorn,    and  Servants.  (Flying. — Help  !  Murder 
Murder  ! 

Zent.  Doria's  struck.  Stop  the  Count  Lorn 
ellino  ! — (Lomkllino  w  taken.) 

Lorn.  Spare  but  my  life,  I'll  join  your  party. 

Bourg.  (Looking  at  Gianettino)  Is  thi 
monster  yet  alive  ? — Let  the  coward  fly.  (Lc 
(mellino  escapes.) 

Zent,  St.  Thomas'  Gate  our  own — Gianetti 
no  slain. — Haste  some  of  you,  and  tell  Fiesco. 

Gian,  ( Heaving  himself  from  the  ground  in  age 
ny.)    Fiesco  !  Damnation  I  ■  ■    ( Dies, ) 


FIESCO. 


105 


Bourg.  (Pulling  the  sword  out  of  Gianetti- 
so's  body. )  Freedom  to  Genoa,  and  to  my  Ber. 
ha !  Your  sword,  Zenturione.— .Take  to  my 
>ride  this  bloody  weapon — Her  dungeon  is  thrown 
>pen.  I'll  follow  thee,  and  give  her  the  bridal 
kiss.    (They  separate  through  different  streets.} 

Scene  IV — Andreas  Doria,  Germans. 

German.  The  storm  drove  that  way.  Mount 
/our  horse  Duke. 

And.  Let  me  cast  a  parting  look  at  Genoa's 
owers.  No — It  is  not  a  dream.  Andreas  is  be- 
ray'd. 

German.  The  enemy  is  all  around  us. — Away  ! 
?ly  ! — Beyond  the  boundaries. 

And.     (  Throwing  himself  upon  the  dead  body  of 
lis  nephew. )    Here  will  I  die.    Let  no  one  talk  of 
light.  'Here  lies  the  strength  of  my  old  age—- . 
IVfy  career  is  ended. 
Calcagno  appears  at  a  distance,  with  Conspira- 
tors.) 

German.  Danger  is  near.  Fly,  Prince  1  ( Drums 
feat.  J 

■  And.  Hark,  Germans,  hark  1  These  are  the 
jenoese,  whose  chains  I  broke. — Do  your  coun- 
rymen  thus  recompence  their  benefactors  ? 

German.  Away  !  Away  !  Away  !  While  we 
tay  here,  and  find  employment  for  their  swords — » 
(Calcagno  comes  nearer.) 

And.  Save  yourselves  !  Leave  me — and  go  de- 
:lare  the  horrid  story  to  the  shuddering  nations, 
hat  Genoa  slew  its  father. 

German.  Slew !  'sdeath,  that  shall  not  be.— 
Comrades,  stand  firm  :  surround  the  Duke. — . 
"They  draw  their  swords. J  Teach  these  Italian 
iogs  to  reverence  his  grey  head. 


lo6  fiesco.  Act  Vi 


Cal.    Who  goes  there  ?  What  have  you  ? 
German,    German   blows— (  Retreat,  fightin 
and  carry  off  the  body  of  Giankttiko.) 


Scene    V. — Leonora.     Arabella  following. 

Arab.  Come,  my  lady,  pray  let  us  hasten  on- 
ward. 

Leo.  This  way  the  tumult  rages — Hark  !  was 
that  not  a  dying  groan  ?  Ah,  they  surround  him  i 
At  Fiesco's  breast  they  point  their  fatal  mus- 
quets — At  my  breast  they  point  them.  Hold ! 
Hold  !  It  is  my  husband. 

Arab.    For  Heaven 's  sake  my  lady  !— 
Leo.    O,  my  Fiesco  !  my  Fiesco  !  His  firmest 
friends  desert  him.    The  faith  of  rebels  is  un- 
steady— Rebels  !  Heaven  !  Is  Fiesco  then  a  chief 
of  rebels  ? 

Arab.    No,  Signora.    He  is  the  great  deliv< 
er  of  Genoa. 

Leo.    Ma  !  that  would  indeed  be  glorious  !  Ai 
shall  Leonora  tremble  ?  Shall  the  bravest  citii 
be  wedded  to  the  most  timid  female  ?    Go,  Ai 
bella  !  When  men  contend  for  empires,  even 
woman's  soul  may  kindle  into  valour.    ( Drums 
again  heard)    I'll  rush  among  the  combatants. 

Arab.    All-gracious  Heaven  1 

Leo.  Peace  !  What  is  that  my  foot  strikes  a- 
gainst  ?  Here  is  a  hat.  And  here  a  mantle- 
sword  too  1  ( she  lifts  it  up ) — a  heavy  sword,  my 
Arabella ;  but  I  may  drag  it  with  me,  and  the 
sword  never  can  disgrace  its  bearer.  (  The  alarm 
bell-sounds.  J 

Arab.  Hark  !  Hark  !  How  terrible  it  sounds 
from  the  tower  of  the  Dominicians  !  God  k've 
mercy  on  us  ! 

Leo.  Rather  say,  how  delightful  !  In  the  ma- 
jestic sound  of  this  alarm-bell  my  Fiesco  speaks 


At  V. 


FIESCO. 


to  Geona.  ( Drums  are  heard  louder,)  Ha  !  Never 
did  flutes  so  sweetly  strike  my  ear.  Even 
these  drums  are  animated  by  Fiesco.  My  heart 
beats  higher.  All  Genoa  is  roused  :  the  very 
mercenaries  follow  his  name  with  transport — and 
shall  his  wife  be  fearful  ?  {Alarm-bells  sound  from 
three  other  towers,)  No — my  hero  shall  embrace 
a  heroine.  My  Brutus  shall  embrace  a  Roman 
wife.  I'll  be  his  Portia.  (Putting  on  the  hat,  and 
throwing  the  scarlet  mantle  around  her,) 

Arab,  My  gracious  Lady,  how  wildly  do  you 
rave  1    (Alarm-bells  and  drums  are  heard,) 

Leo,  Cold-blooded  wretch  !  that  dost  not  rave 
thyself  amidst  these  scenes — Go — I'll  pursue  my 
way  alone. 

[  Arab,  Great  God  1  You  will  not  act  thus  mad- 
Ijr? 

Leo,  Weak  girl  I  I  will.  Where  the  tumult 
most  wildly  rages—Where  Fiesco  himself  leads 
}n  the  combat — I  hear  them  ask,  "  is  that  La-r 
vagna,  the  unconquered  hero,  who  with  his  sword 
lecides  the  lot  of  Genoa?  Is  that  Lavagna  ?" 
,i5Tes,  I  will  say,  yes,  Genoese,  that  is  Lavagna  : 
and  that  Lavagna  is  my  husband. 
|  Sacco,  (Entering  with  Conspirators.)  Who 
goes  there  ? — Doria,  or  Fiesco  ? 

Leo,  Fiesco  and  liberty  !  (Retires  into  another 
street — A  tumult,  Araeella  lost  in  the  crowd,) 

Scene  VI. — Sacco,  with  a  number  of  followers, 
Calcagno,  meeting  him  with  others, 

Cal,    Andreas  has  escaped. 

Sacco,    Unwelcome  tidings  to  Fiesco. 

Cal,  Those  Germans  fight  like  furies.  They 
ix'd  themselves  around  the  old  man  like  rocks  : 
I  could  not  get  a  sight  of  him.  Nine  of  our  men 
ire  done  for :  I  myself  was  slightly  wounded.— r 


10$  >    F1ESC0  Act 

Zounds  !  If  they  thus  serve  a  foreign  tyrant,  ho' 
will  they  guard  the  princes  of  their  country  ! 

Sacco.  Numbers  have  flock'd  already  to  oui 
standard,  and  all  the  gates  are  ours. 

CaU  They  fight,  I  hear,  still  sharply  at  the 
citadel* 

Sacco.  Bourgognino  is  amongst  them.  When 
is  Verrina  ? 

CaU  He  guards  the  passage  between  Geno? 
and  the  sea. 

Sacco.    I'll  rouse  the  suburbs — 

Cal.  I'll  march  across  the  square  of  Sarzano— 
Drummer,  strike  up!  'They  march  off,  drums  beat 
ing.J 

scene  VII. — Moor.    A  troop  of  Thieves,  witi 
lighted  matches. 

Moor.  Now  I'll  be  even  with  the  rascals.— 
'Twas  I  that  cook'd  this  soup  up  for  them,  ant 
they  have  driven  me  from  the  mess.  Well — J 
care  not — We'll  set  about  burning  and  plundering 
Let  those  fellows  squabble  for  a  dukedom,  we'l 
make  a  bonfire  of  the  churches  to  warm  the  silvej 
beards  of  the  apostles. 

(They  disperse  themselves  among  the  neighbouring 
streets. J 

Scene   VIII.  Bourgognino  ;    Bertha,  dis 

guised  as  a  boy. 

Bourg.  Rest  here,  dear  youth  :  thou  art  ir 
safety.    Dost  thou  bleed  ? 

Ber.  (In  a  feigned  voice.)    No — Not  at  all. 

Bourg.  Rise  then,  I'll  lead  thee,  where  thoi 
may'st  gain  wounds  for  Genoa — Wounds  beauti 
ful  like  this.    (Uncovering  his  arm. ) 

Ber.    Heavens  ! 

Bourg.  Art  thou  frighten'd,  youth,  too  earlj 
didst  thou  put  on  the  man.    How  old  art  thou  I 


id  r. 


riF.seo* 


109 


Ber.    Fifteen  years. 
I  Bourg.    That  is  unfortunate.    For  this  night's 
msiness  thou  art  five  years  too  young.    Who  is 
hy  father  ? 

Ber.    The  truest  citizen  in  Genoa. 

Bourg,    Peace,  boy  !  That  name  belongs  alone 

0  the  father  of  my  betrothed  bride.  Dost  thou 
mow  the  house  of  Verrina  ?„ 

Ber.    I  think  so. 

Bourg.  And  knowest  thou  his  lovely  daughter  ? 
Ber.    Her  name  is  Bertha. 

Bourg.  Go,  quickly  1  Carry  her  this  ring.  Say 
t  shall  be  our  wedding-ring  ;  and  tell  her,  the 
>lue  crest  fights  bravely.  Now,  farewell  1  I  must 
msten  yonder — the  danger  is  not  over. 

( Some  houses  are  seen  on  Jire.J 

\   Ber.    Scipio ! 

Bourg.    By  my  sword,  I  know  that  voice, 
j  Ber.    (Falling  about  kis  neck.)    Am  I  so  well 
oiown,  then  ? 

!  Bourg.  Bertha  !  ( Alarm-bells  sound  in  the 
suburbs — a  tumult — Bourgognino  and  Bertha 
^mbrace,  and  are  lost  in  the  crowd. J 

Scene  IX. — Fiesco  and  Zibo  from  different  sides. 
Attendants. 

Fies.    Who  set  fire  to  those  houses  ? 

1  Zibo.    The  citadel  is  taken. 

'  Fies*    Who  set  those  houses  on  fire  ? 

}  Zibo.    (  To  the  attendants.)    Dispatch  a  guard 

o  apprehend  the  villains.    (Some  soldiers  go.) 

Fies.  Will  they  make  me  an  incendiary  ?  Hast- 
:n  with  the  engines  !    ( Attendants  go.)    But  Gi- 
inettino  is  surely  kill'd. 
:  Zibo.    So  they  say. 

Fies.  They  say  1  Who  say  ?  declare  upon 
our  honour,  has  he  escaped  ? 


[vol.  ii.) 


T 


1 10  fiesco.  Act  V 

Zibo.    If  I  may  trust  my  eyes  against  the  as- 
sertion of  a  nobleman,  Gianettino  lives. 
Fies.    Zibo,  your  words  distract  me — 
Zibo.    'Tis  but  eight  minutes,  since  I  sawhirr 
in  the  crowd,  drest  in  his  scarlet  cloak,  and  yel 
low  crest. 

Fies,  Heaven  and  hell  !  Zibo  !  Bourgogninc 
shall  answer  for  it  with  his  head.  Hasten,  Zibo! 
make  fast  the  barriers.  Let  all  the  vessels  be 
lock'd  together,  to  hinder  his  escape  by  sea.— 
This  diamond,  Zibo — the  richest  in  Genoa — This 
diamond  shall  reward  the  man  who  brings  me 
tidings  of  Gianettino's  death.  fZiBo  hasteiu 
away. )    Fly,  Zibo  I 

Scene  X. — Fiesco,  Sacco,  the  Moor,  Soldiers, 

Sacco.  We  found  this  Moor  throwing  a  light 
ed  match  into  the  convent  of  the  Jesuits.  - 

Fies.  Thy  treachery  was  overlook'd,  when  i 
concerned  myself  alone  :  The  halter  awaits  th( 
incendiary.  Take  him  away,  and  hang  him  at 
the  church-door. 

Moor,  Plague  on  it — that's  an  awkward  piece 
of  business — Can't  one  persuade  you  out  of  it  ? 

Fies,  No. 

Moor,    Send  me  for  a  trial  to  the  gallies — 
Fies.  ( Beckoning  to  the  attendants.)  To  the  gibbet 
Moor.    Then  I'll  turn  Christian. 
Fies.  The  church  refuses  the  dregs  of  infidelity. 
Moor.    At  least  send  me  drunk  into  eternity. 
Fies.  Sober. 

Moor.  Don't  hang  me  up,  however  beside  8 
Christian  church. 

Fies.  A  man  of  honour  keeps  his  word.  1 
promis'd  thee  a  gallows  of  thy  own. 

Sacco.  Let  us  not  lose  time  with  this  black- 
guard, we've  business  of  more  consequence, 

Moor.     But  stay  Perhaps  the  rope  may 

break — 


Act  V. 


11ESC0. 


Ill 


!   Fies.    (To  Sacco.)    Let  it  be  double, 
ft  Moor.    Well — If  it  must  be  so— The  devil  may- 
make  ready  for  my  reception. 

(Soldiers  lead  him  to  execution. ) 

Scene  XI. — Fie sco  ;   Leonora   appearing  at  a 
distance,  in  the  scarlet  cloak  of  Gianettino. 

!  Fies.  ( Perceiving  her,  rushes  forward — then 
'ntops.J  Do  I  not  know  that  crest  and  mantle  ? — . 
I  'Rushes  on  furiously. J — Yes,  1  know  them.  ( Runs 
\\her  through  with  his  sword. J  If  thou  hast  three 
ives,  then  rise  again — (Leon oka  falls  with  a 
\  hollow  groan — The  march  of  victory  is  heard,  xvitli 
\ drums,  horns,  and  hautboys.) 

Scene  XII. — Fiesco,  Calcagno,  Sacco,  Zen* 
turione,    Zibo. — Soldiers  with  drums  and 
colours. 

1  Fies.  (Advancing  toward  them  in  triumph.)—. 
Genoese,  the  die  is  cast.  Here  lies  the  viper  of  rar 
!>ouJ,  the  abhorred  food  of  my  resentment.  Lift 
ugh  your  swords — Gianettino  is  no  more. 

Cal.  And  I  came  to  inform  you,  that  two 
thirds  of  Genoa  have  declared  for  our  party,  and 
jjwear  obedience  to  Fiesco's  standard. 

Zibo.  By  me,  Verrina  sends  his  greeting  to 
rou  from  the  admiral's  galley,  with  the  domini- 
)n  of  the  sea. 

I  Zent.    By  me,  the  governor  of  the  city  sends 
liis  keys,  and  staff  of  office. 

Sacco.  And  in  me,  (kneeling J  the  less  and 
greater  senate  of  the  republic  kneel  down  before 
heir  master,  and  supplicate  for  favor  and  pro- 
.eclion. 

!  CaL    Let  me  be  the  first  to  welcome  the  illu- 
strious conqueror  within  his  walls — Bow  your 
colors.    Hail,  Duke  of  Genoa  ! 
All.    Hail  1  Hail,  Duke  of  Genoa  \— (March 


112 


FIESCO. 


ef  triumph — Fiesco  stands  the  whole  time  with  hiy 
head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  in  a  meditating  posture,) 

Cal.  The  people  and  the  senate  wait  to  see 
their  gracious  sovereign  invested  in  the  robes  oi 
dignity.  Great  Duke,  permit  us  to  follow  you  in 
triumph  to  the  senate-house. 

Fies.  First  allow  me  to  listen  to  the  dictates 
of  my  heart.  I  was  obliged  to  leave  a  most  dear 
person  in  anxious  apprehension — A  Person,  who 
will  share  with  me  the  glory  of  this  night.  (Tt 
the  Company.)  Will  you  my  friends,  attend  me 
to  your  amiable  Dutchess  ?    ( Going.) 

Cal.  Shall  this  murderous  villain  lie  here,  and 
hide  his  infamy  in  obscurity  ? 

Zibo.  Let  his  mangled  carcase  sweep  the 
streets —  (  They  hold  lights  toward  the  body.) 

Cal.  (Terrified,  and  in  a  low  voice.)  Look, 
Genoese  !  By  heavens,  this  is  not  the  face  o] 
Gianettino  !  (All  look  at  the  body.) 

Fies.  ( Fixes  his  eyes  upon  it  with  an  eager  look 
which  he  withdraws  slowly — then  with  convulsive  wild- 
ness  exclaims ) — No,  ye  devils  ! — That  is  not  the 
face  of  Gianettino — Malicious  devils  ! — Genoa 
mine,  say  you  ?  Mine  ?  ( Rushing  forward  with  a 
dreadful  shriek.)  Oh,  hell  !  It  is  my  wife  !  (He 
sinks  to  the  ground  in  agony — The  Conspirators 
stand  around  in  groups,  shuddering — A  dead  silence.) 

Fies.  ( Raising  himself  exhausted — in  a  faint 
voice.)  Have  I  slain  my  wife,  Genoese  ?  I  con- 
jure you,  lock  not  so  ghashly  upon  this  illusion! 
Heaven  be  praised,  man  has  not  to  fear  such 
evils,  because  he  is  but  man.  Infernal  tortures 
cannot  be  his  lot,  who  is  incapable  of  godlike 
pleasures.  Genoese,  can  this  be  aught  but  a  dis- 
ordered fancy  ?  (With  a  jorced  calmness.)  Thank 
Heaven,  it  is  no  more. 

Scene  XIII. — The  Former — Arabella  enters, 
weeping.  | 
Arab.  Let  them  kill  me  !  What  have  I  now  to 


ict  V. 


FIESCO. 


lread  ?  Have  pity  on  me,  Genoese — 'Twas  here 
.  left  my  dearest  mistress,  and  no-where  can  I 
ind  her. 

S  Fies.    {Approaching  her — with  a  loiv  and  tremb- 
ing  voice,)    Was  Leonora  thy  mistress  ? 

Arab.  Are  you  there,  my  good  Lord  ?  Be  not 
lispleased  with  us.  We  could  not  restrain  her. 

Fies.  Restrain  her  !  Wretch  1  From  what  ?— 
'  Arab.    From  following — 

Fies.    From  following  what  ? 

Arab.    The  tumult — 

Fies.    What  was  her  dress  ? 
I  Arab.    A  scarlet  mantle. 

Fies.  Get  thee  to  the  abyss  of  hell  I — The 
mantle  ? 

Arab.    Lay  here  upon  the  ground. 

Some  of  the  conspirators  {Talking  apart.)  'Twas 
here,  that  Gianettino  was  kill'd 
|  Fies.  {To  Arabella.)  Thy  mistress  is 
found — ( Arabella  advances  anxiously — Fiesco 
:asts  his  eyes  round  the  ivhole  circle — then  ivith  a 
faltering  voice)  'Tis  true-— 'Tis  true — And  I  am 
the  instrument  of  this  horrid  crime — Away  with 
Ijyou,  countenances  of  men  !  {To  the  others  that 
stand  around  trembling. J  See,  how  they  stand  there, 
a  miserable  race  !  meanly  rejoicing,  that  they 
are  not  like  me.  I  alone  feel  the  blow,  I  ? — why 
I  ? — Why  not  these  together  with  me  ?  Why  is 
not  my  sorrow  lighten'd  by  being  shared  with 
others  ? 

Cal.  Most  gracious  Duke  ! 
|  Fies*  Ha  !  Welcome  1  Here,  Heaven  be 
thank'd,  is  one  whom  the  same  thunderbolt  has 
struck — {Pressing  Calcagno  furiously  in  his  arms.) 
Brother  of  my  sorrows  !  Come,  and  share  their 
keenest  pang.  She's  dead — Didst  not  thou  also 
love  her  ?  (Forcing  him  toward  the  dead  body.) 
Despair  1  She's  dead — Oh,  that  I  could  stand 
t  2 


114 


FIESCO, 


An  r, 


upon  the  brink  of  the  infernal  gulf,  and  view  be-H 
low  all  hell's  variety  of  torments  1— could  hear 
the  horrid  shrieks  of  howling  fiends  ! — Let  my! 
own  torture  be  placed  before  me  in  a  visible  form, 
and  I  perhaps  may  bear  it.  ( Approaching  to  the 
body,  trembling* J  Here  lies  my  murdered  wife — 
Nay — Nay — The  wife,  that  I  myself,  have  mur- 
dered— Ha  !  Hell  itself  will  shudder  at  this  deed. 
I  was  allured  up  to  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  joy- 
To  the  very  entrance  of  heaven — Then— -In  an 
instant  down — Then — Pestilence  upon  it  1 — 
Then,  I  murdered  my  beloved  wife — Fool  that  I 
was,  to  trust  two  erring  eyes  !  O  fiends,  this  is 
your  master- piece  of  torture  ! 

( All  the  Conspirators  lean  upon  their  swordf, 
much  afflicted — A  pause — ) 

Fies.  ( Exhaused,  and  looking  mournfully  round 
the  circle.)  Yes,  by  heavens  1  They  who  dared 
lift  their  swords  against  their  Prince,  shed  tears. 
Speak  1  Do  you  weep  over  this  havoc  caused  by 
treacherous  death,  or  over  the  fall  of  your  com- 
mander's spirit  ? — The  iron- hearted  warriors 
were  melted  into  tears  ;  but  Fiesco  uttered  the, 
execrations  of  despair.  ( Kneels  down,  weeping, 
by  her  side.  J  Pardon  me,  Leonora  !  The  decrees 
of  Heaven  are  unchangeable  :  they  yield  not  to 
mortal  anger.  — O  Leonora,  years  ago  my  fancy 
painted  that  triumphant  hour,  when  I  should  pre- 
sent thee  to  Genoa  as  her  Dutchess — Methought, 
I  saw  the  lovely  blush  that  tinged  thy  modest 
cheek — The  timid  heaving  of  thy  beauteous 
bosom  beneath  the  snowy  gauze — I  heard  the 
gentle  murmurs  of  thy  voice  which  died  away  in 
rapture. — Ah,  how  intoxicating  to  my  soul  were 
the  proud  acclamations  of  the  people  !  How  did 
my  love  rejoice  to  see  its  triumph  mark'd  in  the 
sinking  envy  of  its  rivals  ! — Leonora  !  The  hour, 
which  should  confirm  these  hopes  ,  is  come* 
Thy  Fiesco  is  Duke  of  Genoa— And  yet  the 


Act  r.  fie sco.  ns 

meanest  beggar  would  not  exchange  his  poverty 
for  my  greatness,  and  my  sufferings.  He  has  a 
wife  to  share  his  troubles — With  whom  can  I 
share  my  splendor  ?  ( He  weeps  bitterly,  and  hicks 
his  face  against  the  dead  body,) 

Cal.  She  was  a  lady  of  most  virtuous  excel- 
lence. 

Zibo.  This  event  must  be  concealed  from  the 
people.  'Twould  damp  the  ardor  of  our  party, 
and  elevate  the  enemy  with  hope. 

Fies.  ( Rises,  collected  and  firm.)  Now,  hear 
me,  Genoese  !  Providence,  if  rightly  I  interpret 
its  designs,  has  struck  me  with  this  wound,  to 
try  my  heart  for  my  approaching  greatness.  The 
blow  was  terrible. — Since  I  have  felt  it  ;  I  fear 
neither  torture,  nor  pleasure.— Come  !  Genoa, 
.  you  say,  awaits  me — 1  will  give  to  Genoa  a 
Prince  more  truly  great  than  Europe  ever  saw. 
Away  ! — for  this  unhappy  Princess  I  will  pre- 
pare a  funeral  so  splendid,  that  life  shall  lose  its 
charms,  and  cold  corruption  shall  glitter  like  a 
bride.  Follow  your  Duke! — (Exeunt,  iviih  mu- 
sic and  colors* 

Scene  XIV. — Andreas,  Lomellino. 

And,  Yonder  they  go,  with  shouts  of  exulta- 
tion. 

Lorn,  They  are  intoxicated  with  success.  The 
gates  are  deserted,  and  all  are  hastening  toward 
the  senate-house. 

And.  It  was  my  nephew  only,  that  could  check 
that  unruly  animal,  the  populace.  My  nephew  is 
no  more.    Hear,  Lomellino  1 

Lorn.    What,  Duke,  do  you  still  cherish  hopes  ? 

And.  Villain,  thou  mock'st  me  with  the  name 
of  Duke,  when  all  my  hopes  are  past. 

Lorn.  My  gracious  Lord,  a  rebellious  nation 
lies  in  Fiesco's  scale  ;  but  what  in  yours  ? 

And,  Heaven. 


116 


FIESCO. 


Act  V. 


Lorn.  The  times  are  past,  my  Lord,  when  ar- 
mies fought  under  the  guidance  of  celestial  lead- 
ers. 

And.  Wretch,  that  thou  art !  would'st  thou 
bereave  an  aged  head  of  it  support,  its  God  !  Go  I 
Make  it  known  through  Genoa,  that  Andreas  Do- 
ria  is  still  alive.  Say,  that  Andreas  entreats  the 
citizens,  his  children,  not  to  drive  him  out  in  his 
old  age,  to  dwell  with  foreigners,  who  ne'er  would 
pardon  the  exalted  state  to  which  he  raised  his 
country.  Say  this — And  further  say,  Andreas 
begs  but  so  much  ground  within  his  country,  as 
may  contain  his  bones. 

Lorn.  I  obey — but  I  despair  of  success.  (Go- 
ing.) 

And.  Stay — Take  with  thee  this  snowy  lock; 
and  say,  it  was  the  last  upon  my  head.  Say  that 
I  plucked  it  from  me  on  that  night,  when  un- 
grateful Genoa  tore  itself  from  my  heart.  For 
fourscore  years  it  hung  upon  my  temples,  and 
now  has  left  my  bald  head,  chill'd  with  the  win- 
ter of  age.  The  lock  is  weak,  but  'twill  suffice  to 
fasten  the  purple  on  that  young  usurper. — (Exit— 
Lomellino  hastens  into  another  street — Shouts  arc- 
heard,  with  trumpets,  and  drums.) 

Scene  XV. — Verrina,  Bertha  and  Bourgog- 
nino. 

Ver.    What  mean  these  shouts  ? 

Bourg.    They  proclaim  Fiesco  Duke. 

Ber.  (To  Bourgognino.) — Scipio!  My  fa- 
ther's looks  are  dreadful —  . 

Ver.  Leave  me  alone,  my  children— O  Genoa  '. 
Genoa  1 

Bourg.  The  'populace  adore  him,  and  with 
transports  hail'd  him  their  Duke.  The  nobles 
looked  on  with  horror,  but  dared  not  oppose  it. 

Ver.  My  son,  I  have  sold  all  my  property,  and 
sent  the  gold  on  board  thy  vessel.    Take  thy  wife 


Act  V. 


FIESCO. 


v 

117 


,vith  thee,  and  set  sail  immediately.  Perhaps  I 
joon  shall  follow — Perhaps — But  no  more — Hast- 
►n  to  Marseilles,  and  ( embracing  them) — may  the 
Mmighty  guide  you  !    {Exit  hastily.) 

Ber.  For  Heaven's  sake,  on  what  dreadful 
project  does  my  father  brood  ? 

Bourg.    Didst  thou  understand  thy  father  ? 

Ber.  He  bade  us  fly. — Great  God  !  Fly  on  the 
lay  of  marriage  ! 

Bourg.    He  spoke  it,  and  we  must  obe,y. 

{Exeunt  toward  the  harbour* 

>cei:e  XVI. — Verrina,  and  Fiesco  (in  the  du- 
cal habit, J  meeting, 
i;  Fies.    Welcome,  Verrina  1   I  was  anxious  to 
meet  thee. 

i  Ver.    I  also  sought  Fiesco. 

j  Fies.    Does  Verrina  perceive  no  alteration  hi 

his  friend  ? 

Ver.    I  wish  for  none. 

Fies.  But  do  you  see  none  ? 

Ver.    I  should  hope  not. 
|  Fies.    I  ask,  do  you  perceive  none  ? 
\   Ver.  None. 

Fies.  See  then,  how  idle  is  the  observation, 
hat  power  makes  a  tyrant.  Since  we  parted,  I 
im  become  the  Duke  of  Genoa,  and  yet  Verrina 
'pressing  him  to  his  bosom )  finds  my  embrace  still 
glowing  as  before. 

Ver.  I  grieve  that  I  must  return  it  coldly.  The 
light  of  majesty  falls  like  a  keen-edged  weapon, 
cutting  off  all  affection,  between  the  Duke  and 
J  me.  To  John  Louis  Fiesco  belong'd  the  territory 
3f  my  heart.  Now  *he  has  conquered  Genoa,  I 
resume  that  poor  possession. 

Fies.  Forbid  it,  Heaven !  That  price  is  too 
snormous  even  for  a  Dukedom. 

Ver.    Hum  !  The  worth  of  liberty  is  surely  lit- 
l  Ie  known,  when  the  whole  state  is  thus  easily 
ielded  up  to  an  usurper  I 


118  riEsco.  Act  V 

Fies.  Verrina,  say  this  to  no  one,  but  to  Fiesco. 
Ver.  O  wondcrous  !  Great  indeed  is  that  mini! 
which  can  hear  the  voice  of  truth  without  beinj 
offended — Alas  !  The  cunning  gamester  has  fail'd' 
in  one  single  card.  He  calculated  all  the  chance? 
of  envious  opposition,  but  overlooked  one  antago 
nist,  the  patriot — And  yet  perhaps  to  crown  th< 
game,  one  glorious  turn  remains,  and  the  oppres- 
sor of  liberty  may  show  his  skill  in  overwhelming 
Roman  virtue.  I  swear  it  by  the  living  God,  pos- 
terity shall  sooner  colle£\:  my  mouldering  bone: 
from  off  the  wheel,  than  from  a  sepulchre  withii 
that  country,  which  is  govern'd  by  a  duke. 

Fies.  Not  even  when  thy  brother  is  the  Duke; 
Not,  if  he  should  make  his  principality  the  tre* 
sury  of  that  benevolence,  which  was  rcstrain'd  b) 
his  domestic  poverty  ? 

Ver.  No — not  even  then — We  pardon  not  th< 
robber,  because  he  gave  away  his  plunder  ;  nor  is 
it  such  generosity,  as  suits  Verrina.  I  might  re- 
ceive a  benefit  from  my  fellow-citizen ;  for,  ] 
should  hope,  that  to  my  fellow-citizen  I  might  at 
some  time  make  an  adequate  return.  That  which 
a  Prince  confers,  is  bounty  ;  but  mere  unpurchased 
bounty  I  would  receive  from  God  alone. 

Fies.  It  were  as  easy  to  tear  Italy  from  the 
bosom  of  the  ocean,  as  to  shake  this  stubborn  fel- 
fow  from  his  prejudices. 

Ver.  Well  may'st  thou  talk  of  tearing  :  thou 
hast  torn  the  republic  from  Doria,  as  a  lamb  from 
the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  only  that  thou  mightest  de- 
vour it  thyself — But  enough  of  this — tell  me  Duke, 
what  crime  the  poor  wretch  committed,  that  you 
ordered  to  be  hungup  at  the  Church  of  the  Jesuits  ? 

Fies.    The  scoundrel  set  fire  to  the  city. 

Ver.    Yet  the  scoundrel  left  the  laws  untouch'd. 

Fies.    Verrina  intrudes  upon  my  friendship. 

Ver.  Away  with  friendship  1 — I  tell  thee  I  no 
longer  love  thee.    I  swear  to  thee,  that  I  hate 


Ut  V. 


FIESCO. 


119 


» jhee — hate  thee  like  the  serpent  of  Paradise,  that 
irst  disturb'd  the  happiness  of  creation,  and 
POUght  upon  mankind  unbounded  sorrow.  Hear 
tic,  Fiesco  ?  I  speak  to  thee,  not  as  a  subject  to 
is  master,  not  as  a  friend  to  his  friend  ;  but  as 
nan  to  man — Thou  hast  committed  a  crime  a- 

;  jainst  the  majesty  of  the  eternal  God,  in  permit- 
ing  virtue  to  lead  thy  hands  to  wickedness,  and  in 
uffering  the  patriots  of  Genoa  to  violate  their 
ountry.  P'iesco,  had  thy  villainy  deceived  me 
lso — Fiesco,  by  all  the  horrors  of  eternity  !  with 

t  ny  own  hands  I  would  have  strangled  myself,  and 
>n  thy  head  the  venom  of  my  departing  soul 

\  hould  have  been  sprinkled. — A  princely  crime 
nay  crush  the  scales  of  human  justice  ;  but  thou 
last  insulted  Heaven,  and  the  last  judgment  will 
lecide  the  cause. 

?  ?iesco  remains  speechless,   looking  at  him   'with  ' 
astonishment. 
Ver.    Do  not  attempt  to  answer  me.    Now  we 
lave  done— Duke  of  Genoa,  in  the  vessels  of  the 
esterday's  tyrant,  I  have  seen  a  miserable  race, 
vho,  at  every  strpke  of  their  oars,  ruminate  upon 
heir  former  guilt,  and  weep  their  tears  into  the 
i  »cean,  which,  like  a  rich  man,  is  too  proud  to 
ount  them.    A  good  prince  begins  his  reign  with 
icts  of  pity.    Wilt  thou  release  the  galley  slaves  ? 

Fies.  Let  them  be  the  firft  fruits  of  my  tyran- 
ry.    Go,  and  announce  to  them  their  deliverance. 

Ver.    You  will  enjoy  but  half  the  pleasure,  un- 
ess  you  see  their  happiness.    Go  thither.  The 
jreat  are   seldom  witnesses  of  the  evils,  which 
'  hey  cause.    Shall  they  do  good  by  stealth,  and  in 
>bscurity  ?  Methinks,  the  Duke  is  not  too  great 
6:0  sympathize  with  a  beggar. 

Fies.    Man,  thou  art  dreadful  ;  yet  I  know  not 
vhy,  I  must  follow  thee.  ( Both  go  toward  the  sea.) 
I  Ver.    (Stops,   much  affected.)    But  once  more 


IT  IE  SCO. 


Act  V 


embrace  me,  Fiesco.  Here  is  no  one  by,  to  sec 
Verrina  weep,  or  to  behold  a  Prince  give  way  tc 
feeling — ( he  embraces  him  eagerly, )  Surely  nevei 
beat  two  greater  hearts  together — ( weeping  much 
on  Fie  sco's  neck. J  Fiesco!  Fiesco!  Thou  mak 
est  a  void  in  my  bosom,  which  not  mankind  thrice 
numbered  could  fill  up. 
Fies,    Be  still  my  friend. 

Ver,  Throw  off  this  hateful  purple,  and  I  wil 
be  so — The  first  Prince  was  a  murderer,  and  as 
sumed  the  purple  to  hide  the  bloody  stains  of  some 
detested  deed.  Hear  me,  Fiesco  !  I  am  a  war 
rior,  little  used  to  weeping — Fiesco,  these  arc 
my  first  tears — Throw  off  this  purple  1  j 

Fies,    Peace  ! 

Ver.  Fiesco,  place  on  the  one  side  all  the  ho 
nors  of  this  globe,  and  on  the  other  all  its  tor 
tures  :  they  should  not  make  me  kneel  before  ; 
mortal — Fiesco,  (falling  on  his  knee )  this  is  th< 
ijrst  bending  of  my  knee — Throw  off  this  purple 

Fies,    Rise,  and  no  longer  irritate  me  ! 

Ver.  I  rise,  and  will  no  longer  irritate  thee.— 
(They  stand  near  a  board  leading  to  a  galley. ) 

Ver.    The  Prince  goes  first. 

Fies,    Why  do  you  pull  my  cloak  ?  It  falls — 

Ver,  If  the  purple  falls,  the  Duke  must  aftei 
it.    ( He  throws  him  into  the  sea,) 

Fis,  (Calls  out  of  the  waves.)  Help,  Genoa  i 
Help  thy  Duke  !    (Sinks. J 

Scene  XVII — Calcagno  Sacco,   Zibo,  Zen 
turione — Conspirators.  People, 

Cal,  (Crying out,)  Fiesco!  Fiesco!  Andreai 
is  returned — Half  Genoa  joins  Andreas — When 
is  Fiesco  ? 

Ver,  Drown'd. 

Zent,  Does  hell,  or  madness  prompt  thy  answer 
Ver,    Dead — if  that  sound  better. — I    go  t 
join  Andreas. 

FINIS. 


CaM  anli  $.obr, 

A  TRAGEDY, 

BY  FREDERICK  SCHILLER, 


£>ratnati$  Pertfonae* 


Count  Faulkener,  President,  of  high  rank  at  the  Couri 

of  a  German  Prince. 
Major  Ferdinand  Faulkener,  his  Son. 
Baron  Mindheim  . 

Miller,  formerly  a  Merchant ;  but  by  repeated  losses  obli- 
ged to  give  up  trade,  and  to  become  Music-Master 

Worm,  private  Secretary  to  the  President. 
An  old  Servant,  belonging  to  the  Prince. 


Lady  Jane  Milford,  the  Prince's  Favourite. 
Louisa,  Miller's  Daughter. 
•Sophy,  Lady  Milford's  Maid. 

Constables,  Servants,  ifc.  tlfc. 


CABAL  and  LOVE. 


ACT  J. 


ScfeNE  I. — Room  at  Miller's  House. 
(Mlller  at  Breakfast — Looking  at  his  watch) 

Miller.  X  IS  not  so  late  as  I  thought  it  was — 
.till  it  cannot  be  long  before  Louisa  returns  from 
:hurch — Poor  dear  girl! — How  my  heart  feels  for 
ler !  Much  I  dread  the  result  of  Major  Faulken- 
;r's  attentions  to  her.  Would  to  heaven  she  had 
lever  seen  him  1  The  President,  his  haughty 
ather,  will  spurn  at  a  connection,  so  far  beneath 
he  birth  of  his  son — (pause) — The  thought  of 
his  brings  afresh  to  my  mind  the  days  that  are 
jone  ;  when,  unchecked  by  adversity,  the  chief 
>artof  my  life  passed  in  a  comfortable  indepen- 
,  lency  :  till,  within  a  few  years,  by  repeated  losses 
!n  trade,  (pointing  to  the  harpsichord,  flute,  and 
noiin  in  the  room)  I  have  been  obliged  to  my  music 
\  or  support — (pause) — But,  soft ! — Louisa  comes — 
I  forbear  to  wound  her  susceptible  'heart  by  the 
>ad  narrative  of  my  misfortunes. 

)CENE  II. — Enter  Louisa,  as  coming  from  Masst 

I  Lousia.     (Laying    down   her   prayW^book  and 
>eadsy  and  taking  Tier  father  by   the   hand)  Good 
corning,  dear  father  ! 
Miller.    Whence  do  you  come,  Louisa  ? 


4 


CABAL  And  love. 


Ad  I. 


Lousia.    I  come  from  mass,  father — • 

Miller,  That  is  right,  Louisa — It  joys  me 
much  to  find  your  thoughts  so  early  directed  to 
your  Creator — Ever  thus,  my  child  ;  and  his 
protecting  arm  will  shield  you,  from  the  adverse 
frown  of  fate. 

Louisa.  I  must  indeed  have  been  unworthy 
not  to  have  profited  by  your  precept  as  well  as 
example — But,  father,  has  he  not  yet  been  here  ? 

Miller.    Who,  child? 

Louisa.  I  forgot  at  the  moment  that  there  were 
other  persons  in  the  world  besides  him — My  head 
is  so  wild  :  then  my  Faulkener  has  not  been 
here  ? 

Miller.  I  thought  Louisa  that  you  had  been  at 
church  ;  and  that  your  heart  was  all  devotion—* 

Louisa.  I  understand  you,  father — I  feel  the 
reproach  :  the  monitor  here  too  {pointing  to  her 
heart)  most  sensibly  feels  it  ;  but,  {sighing)  it 
comes  too  late  :  reason  has  yielded  ;  my  heart 
has  surrendered  ;  and  love  prevails — Alas  I  I 
have  no  devotion  left ;  the  heart  that  once  was 
warm  with  prayer  and  thanksgiving  ;  that  pal- 
pitated with  zeal  ;  that  swelled,  nay  trembled 
with  celestial  ardour  ;  and  glowed  'with  ecstacy 
supreme,  is  now  dead  to  all  but  thee,  Ferdinand, 
thou  sole  object  of  my  hopes — {seems  fixed  in 
thought.) 

Miller.  Good  Heavens  ! — What  days  of  bitter- 
ness are  mine  ! — Louisa  !  my  child  ! — She  hears 
me  not — She  is  lost  in  delusion's  dream. 

Loiusa.  {Still  deep  in  thought)  Oh  1  where  is  he 
now  ?— My  restiess  mind  is  ever  on  the  rack,  lest 
I  should  lolttnat  affection,  which  I  would  not 
exchange  lor  worlds.  But  have  I  not  cause  for 
this  alarm,  when  I  think  of  the  vast  distance  be- 
tween him  and  me  ? — If  I  but  consider  the  many 
women,  his  equals  too,   who  are#  daily  paying 


Act  /. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


5 


homage  to  his  father,  in  order  to  secure  a  con- 
'  ne6lion  with  my  Ferdinand  ?  {pause.)  But,  fears 
avaunt — Do  I  not  know  thee,  Faulkener  ?  Do  I 
|  not  know  thy  virtuous  mind  to  be  proof  against 
the  lures  and  artifices  of  our  sex  ? — (turning  to 
her  father.)  Father  !  all  is  safe  :  He  still  is  mine  ; 
and  ever  will  be  so.  You  fear  that  his  heart  may- 
be ensnared  by  the  proud  beauties  of  the  splendid 
Court — No,  my  father,  he  scorns  all  grandeur, 
all  pageantry  of  foolish  pomp  ;  and  hates  every 
mode  of  life,  where  virtue  is  forgotten. 

Miller.  You  know  that  I  love  you — Loiisia  ! — 
you  are  my  only  child  ;  but  try,  oh  !  try  to  for- 
get him. 

Louisa*  Why  so,  my  dearest  father  ?  — 'Twas 
;  but  yesterday  that  he  said  to  me,  "  Lousia  ! — feat 
not  my  father's  machinations  to  form  for  me  a 
connection  which  may  advance  himself — You 
I  know  what  my  mind  requires  :  the  woman  whom 
I  will  call  my  wife,  must  possess  thy  disposition, 
thy  heart :  thine  are  the  qualities,  whose  influence 
will  last." — Yes—this  he  said  to  me  ;  what  is 
there  then  to  fear  ?  This  life  of  mine,  Oh  !  how 
freely  would  I  part  with  it,  could  1  thereby  se-  ■ 
cure  to  thee,  my  Ferdinand,  a  course  of  happy 
years — Father  !  You  surely  cannot  blame  me  for 
so  saying  ? 

Miller.  Blame  you,  Louisa  !  Every  word  that 
you  say  alarms  me  more  and  more  ;  for  I  again 
affirm,  he  never  can.be  yours — Does  not  reason 
plainly  tell  you  so  ? 

Louisa.  My  dear  father,  talk  not  of  reason  : 
'tis  the  foil  of  love — But,  suppose  it  for  once — - 
Granted — Suppose  that  all  my  hopes  should  be 
frustrated,  1  had  rather  fix  my  whole  soul  in  se- 
cret upon  him  alone,  than  consent  to  an  alliance 
with  any  other  upon  earth  ;  for,  let  what  will  1 
happen,  (pointedly)  we  should  still  meet-- — A.  time 
u..  2. 


6 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


wfil  come,  my  father,  when  this  mighty  edifk 
of  distinction  will  fall  ;  when  these  bars  of  seps 
lation  will  be  removed  ;  and  all  ranks  be  levelled 
when  every  one  of  us,   high  and  low  ;  rich  anc 
poor  ;  great  and  small,  shall  be  considered  as  e- 
quals — Merit,  worth,  and  virtue  will  then  give  us 
consequence  :  Nothing  else — and  he  who'gains  the 
laurel  of  reward  can  never  feel  it  shake  ;  for  eter-i 
nil  is  bright   glory's  palm — ( ivith  cool  indijjcri 
ence) — Why  then  should  I  care  what  may  become 
of  me  here  in  this  transitory  state  ?  Oh  !  what  is 
this  poor  needle's  point  of  now  to  a  boundless 
eternity  ? 

Miller.  ( Running  to  her  and  clasping  her  in  hi 
arms)  My  beloved  girl,  my  Louisa,  check  yoi 
sweet  enthusiasm.  Yet  such  is  my  affection  fc 
you,  that  I  would  willingly  at  this  momei 
breathe  my  last,  to  set  your  heart  free  from  thi 
unfortunate  attachment.  ( Exit  hastily 

Louisa.  (Alone.)  That  clasp  of  paternal  fonc 
Taess  overpowers  me  quite  :  amidst  the  chastei 
ings  of  the  father,  I  feel  the  soothings  of  tl 
friend.  All  my  alarms  return — My  lately  exalte 
spirits  sink — Ferdinand  !  I  fear  that  our  doom 
sealed  ;  and  that  misery  is  at  last  our  lot — (hearin 
some  one  coming )  But  some  one  comes — 'Tis 
- — Good  Heavens  ! 

Scene  III. — Ferdinand  and  Louisa.  (He  Jlies 
her  and  embraces  her— she  sinks  on  a  chair  quite 
pale  and  depressed — They  look  at  each  other  Jot 
some  moments  without  speaking.) 

Ferdinand.    Thou  art  pale  !  my  Louisa  ! 

Louisa.  'Tis  nothing — 'Tis  over — Thou  arf 
with  me  {falling  on  his  neck.) 

Ferdinand.  And  does  my  Louisa  still  regard 
me?  Is  her  heart  still  the  same?  Does  it  answer 
to  the  warm  and  tender  emotions  of  my  throbbing 
breast  ? 


CABAL    AND  LOVE. 


7 


Louisa,  Ferdinand  !  while  this  life  remains, 
:ount  on  Louisa's  love. 

Ferdinand,  Indeed  1 — I  almost  doubt  this  perfect 
ioy ;  my  peace  and  comfort  are  so  dependant  on 
hy  smiles  and  happy  looks,  that,  when  but  the 
.aintest  cloud  appears  upon  thy  beauteous  brow, 
ny  heart  is  sunk  in  anguish.  Methinks,  even 
iow,  I  trace  some  mark  of  gloom — Say,  my  Loui- 
ia,  why  that  rising  sigh  And  why  that  starting 
;ear  ? 

Louisa.  {Looking  at  him  with  great  fondness)  Oh  1 
—Why,  my  Ferdinand,  should  I  conceal  my  pain 
irom  thee  ?— ~Yes,  my  beloved,  my  mind  is  big 
ivith  apprehension — I  consider  the  difference  of 
f  jur  situations  in  life  ;  You  are  born  to  rank  and 
I  iffluence ;  ill  suited  to  a  connection  with  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  man  of  my  father's  avocation  :  Think  then, 
Dn  the  President's  austere  pride  ;  think  on  the 
reproaches  that  I  have  to  endure  from  him  :  Alas  I 
he  will  surely  part  us. 
Ferdinand.    Part  us  !  Who  is  to  part  us  I  Who 
-  is  to  tear  asunder  our  hearts,  whose  only  division 
!  ls  their  lodgement  in  two  breasts  ?  Why  this  fear, 
1  my  love  ?  Thou  talk'st  too  of  distinction  of  my 
7  birth  ;  as  if  it  could  stand  in  competition  with  the 
brilliant  beam  of  perfection,  ever  blazoning  in  thy 
lovely  eye  ? 

Louisa.  Ferdinand  !  thy  sanguine  temper  will 
>  QOt  suffer  thee  to  see  our  dangers  as  they  are  :  it 
makes  thee  disregard  thy  father's  stern  commands, 
which  I  reflect  upon  with  terror  and  dismay, 
t  Ferdinand.  Believe  me,  Louisa,  I  can  only  dread 
lithe  deprivation  of  thy  love.  Let  difficulties  and 
impediments  rise  between  us  like  mountains,  they 
shall  be  no  more  than  steps,  wiiich  I  will  quickly 
ascend ;  and  which  will  lea.d  me  to  my  Louisa's 
arms  :  the  storm  of  adverse  fate  will  only  encrease 
my  passion :  dangers  will  only  reflect  additional 
charms  on  thee,  sole  object  of  my  life:  banish  then 


8  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  Act  1 

all  fear  :  I  will  be  thy  guard — Trust  thyself  to  me 
— I  will  throw  myself  between  thee  and  fate  ;  re- 
ceive for  thee  every  wound ;  and  collect  for  thee 
every  gem  from  the  store  of  joy  ;  then  bring  them 
to  thee  with  the  throb  of  ecstacy  in  the  chalice  ol 
love  {tenderly  embracing  her.)  On  this  arm  shal 
thou  hang  through  life  :  through  life  shall  ou: 
hearts  be  one  ;  and  when,  at  last,  it  shall  pleas* 
thy  all-righteous  Judge  to  call  thee  to  thy  eterna 
home,  the  angels  above,  who  will  receive  thee 
shall  confess,  that  it  is  love,  and  love  alone,  cai 
give  a  finishing  perfection  to  the  purity  of  the  soul 
Louisa.  (Much  agitated)  No  more,  my  Ferdi 
nand !  not  a  word  more  1  into  what  a  chaos  of  tu 
mul1:,  agitation,  and  love  hast  thou  thrown  me 
the  very  recesses  of  my  being  are  invaded  ;  and  ] 
know  not  how  to  sustain  these  trying  emotions 
J^eave  me,  I  beseech  thee — In  my  heart  thou  has 
kindled  the  very  torch  of  madness,  which  I  fear 
never,  never  can  be  extinguished. 
(Exit,  Ferdinand  following  her  with  looks  denoting 
great  anxiety. 

Scene  IV. — A  Sr.loon  in  the  President's  House.  Th 
President,  ( ornamented  with  a  star,  riband  am 
*  cross )  followed  by  Worm. 

President.  What  is  that  you  say  Worm,  abom 
my  son  ? — A  serious  engagement  with  a  citizen'! 
daughter  ? — Impossible  ! — No,  Worm,  that  y<Hj 
will  never  make  me  believe. 

Worm.  Well,  Sir,  if  you  do  not  chuse  to  credit 
my  report,  I  cannot  help  it ;  but  your  Excellency 
-will  certainly  find  it  to  be  a  true  one. 

President.  True  !— How  should  that  be  ? — That 
he  may  have  shewn  the  girl  some  attention,  flat 
tered  her,  and  caressed  her,  I  can  readily  suppose 
and  do  not  blame  him  for  it ;  but  that  he  shoulc 
have  any  serious  views — Pshaw ! — Nonsense  1  {wit) 


Act  L 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


9 


a  smile)  I  think  you  said  that  she  was  a  music- 
master's  daughter — Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I 

Worm*    Daughter  of  music-master  Miller,  sir, 
■but  endowed  with  charms,  that  would  eclipse  half 
the  beauties  of  the  court. 

President.  Well,  well  ! — I  am  glad  at  least,  that 
r  Ferdinand  has  taste. — But,  Worm,  did  you  not 
t;once  tell  me,  that  you  yourself  had  some  thoughts 
l  of  this  great  beauty — Now,  Worm,  that  is  all  very 
well  ;  and  I  commend  your  choice  ;  but  I  should 
I  hope,  that  you  do  not  mean  to  trifle  with  me  ;  for, 
;to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  begin  to  think  that  you  are 
i  a  little  jealous  of  Ferdinand's  jokes  and  liberties 
B  irith  this  girl ;  and  that  you  have  trumped  up  this 
I  story,  in  order  to  serve  your  own  purposes  ;  to 
i  get  the  father  to  interfere,  and  by  that  means  to 
I  drive  away  the  son  ;  to  see  the  coast  clear — You 
understand  me,  Worm  ? 
Worm.    Your  Excellency  must  pardon  me,  no- 
J  thing  was  evermore  remote  from  my  thoughts, 
!  The  whole  account  comes  from  the  mother  of  the 
family. 

President.  Take  care,  Worm,  do  not  carry  the 
|  jest  too  far — You  know  me — You  know  that  I  am 
furious  when  once  I  am  angry  ;  therefore,  do  not 
work  me  up  to  a  pitch,  with  this  nonsensical  old 
woman's  talk — you  know  too,  when  once  I  believe 
a  thing,  I  believe  it  obstinately  ;  and  it  is  no 
easy  matter  to  root  out  of  my  mind  the  credit 
once  given — but  I  have  something  for  your  ear 
of  a  totally  different  nature — {pause) — It  is  very 
well  understood,  that  the  Prince's  partiality  for 
his  favourite,  Lady  Milford,  cools  apace  ;  and  it 
is  strongly  rumoured  at  court,  that  upon  the  ar- 
rival of  this  celebrated  dutchess,  whom  I  mention- 
ed to  you  yesterday,  and  who  is  daily'expecled,  his 
Highness  will  be  glad  to  get  Lady  Milford  clearly 
off  his  hands  ;  and  will  try  to  form  a  good  con- 
nexion for  her  with  some  one  of  the  first  nobili- 


[0 


CABAL  AND  LOVE, 


Act  1; 


ty.  Now,  Worm,  though  Lady  Mil  ford  be  no  j 
more  that  great  favourite  of  the  Prince;  yet ! 
her  influence  must  always  be  such,  as  to  secure 
the  first  interest  and  power  to  whatever  party  she 
may  be  pleased  to  countenance  and  support — i 
Therefore  it  is  my  plan,  that  Ferdinand  should 
pay  his  addresses  immediately  to  her  Ladyship, 
(who,  I  know,  is  rather  partial  to  him)  and  there- 
by make  me  a  man  of  great  importance  at  court, 
which,  entre  nous,  Worm,  is  what  I  most  wish 
for  on  earth. 

Worm.  A  very  good  plan  indeed,  Sir,  but  take 
my  word  for  it,  that  you  will  never  be  able  to  put 
it  into  execution. 

President.  No  ? — Well ! — that  we'll  try — Tt 
will  be  the  first  time,  that  ever  I  was  thwarted  in 
a  design,  which  I  was  determined  to  effect — Go 
immediately  to  my  son,  Worm,  and  tell  him  1 
want  to  speak  to  him — I  will  inform  him  this  very 
day  of  my  intention — I  shall  see  by  his  countenance 
in  one  moment,  whether  your  suspicions  be  wejj 
founded  or  not. 

Worm.  I  will  instantly  obey  your  Excellen- 
cy's commands — but,  Sir,  pray  do  not  mention  my 
name  ;  or  the  Major  will  be  very  much  incensed 
against  me. 

President.  No — no — be  assured  I  will  keep 
your  name  concealed.  But,  do  you  hear,  Worm, 
not  a  word  about  all  this  to  any  one  in  being — silent 
as  the  very  grave — for  if  you  prattle  ( threatening. J 

Worm.  Then,  Sir,  bring  all  my  falsehoods  and 
forgeries  to  light.  (Exit. 

President.  (Alone)  I  know  him  to  be  a  down- 
right villain  ;  but  he  is,  nevertheless,  of  great 
use  to  me  in  many  of  my  schemes— the  fellow 
has  a  ready  wit  and  an  apt  conception. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant,    Baron  Mindheim,  Sir. 


Act  I. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


1  1 


President.  Bid  him  walk  up.  {Exit  Servant,) 
He  comes  most  a  propos. 

sScene  V. — Enter  Baron  Mindhiem  dressed 
quite  en  petit  maitre  ;  very  richly  embroidered  coat, 
tivo  watches,  chapeau-bas,  Isfc.  itfc. 

Baron.  Ah  1  mon  cher  President — Good  morn- 
ing ?  I  hope  I  see  you  well — You  will  excuse  me 
for  not  waiting  on  you  sooner  ;  but,  des  affaires 
pressantes,  morning  visits,  and  fifty  engagements 
prevented  my  seeing  you  before— Added  to  all 
this,  those  rascals  the  tailor  and  the  hair-dresser, 
kept  me  waiting  for  them  more  than  a  whole  hour. 

President.  But  I  see  you  are  equipped  at  last 
quite  comme  iVfaut. 

Baron.  Oh  I  Pour  cela  Jiez  vous  a  moi — but  that 
is  not  all ;  another  accident,  ten  times  worse 
than  all  my  other  disappointments,  befell  me 
soon  after — Oh  !  such  a  malheur,  my  friend. 
President.  No,  surely — What  was  it  ? 
Baron.  Do  but  hear — Just  as  I  stept  out  of  my 
carriage  to  pay  a  morning  visit  to  a  lady  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, the  horses  began  to  kick ;  and  splash- 
ed my  whole  dress  with  dirt — What  could  I  do? 
Only  put  yourself  in  my  situation — Ah  1  you  may 
laugh — but,  curse  me,  if  ever  I  was  in  such  a  trim 

before — -Jigurez  vous  seulement  There  was  I 

besmeared  all  over— nay  to  my  very  hair — in  the 
very  dress  I  put  on  to  appear  before  the  Prince 
this  morning.  What  do  you  think  that  I  did  ?  I 
pretended  to  be  suddenly  taken  very  ill,  and  that 
I  was  going  to  faint — so  they  hurried  me  into  my 
carriage — drove  like  desperados  all  the  way  home 
— I  changed  my  dress  tout  a  fait,  comme  vous  me 
voyez  ;  and  yet  got  the  first  into  the  antichamber 
I — What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  Was  not  that  being 
bitn  adroit  ? 

President.  Then  you  spoke  with  the  Prince  this 
niorning  ? 


13 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act 


Baron.    Mais  sans  dante — To  be  sure  I  did—and 
staid  with  him  half  an  hour, 
t     President,    Indeed  ! — Then  you  heard  without 
doubt  some  news. 

Baron.  (Recollecting  himself)  No — I  do  not  re- 
collect having  heard  any — I  told  you,  did  not  I  ? 
that  his  highness  had  a  most  beautiful  coloured 
coat,  verd  pistache. 

President.  Well  then,  I'll  tell  you  a  piece  of 
information — My  son  Ferdinand,  is  soon  to  lea4 
Lady  Milford  to  the  altar — there's  news  for  you* 

Baron.    What  !  all  settled  ? — B  table  I 

President.  Already  signed,  Baron,  and  you 
would  oblige  me,  by  instantly  going  to  her  Lady- 
ship, and  informing  her  of  my  son's  intention  to 
do  himself  the  honor  of  visiting  her  this  evening. 
You  may  also  let  every  one  know  of  Ferdinand's 
determination. 

Baron.  (Taking  the  President's  hand)  Je  vous 
en  felicite  mon  ami — I  will  go  this  moment ;  and 
in  less  than  an  hour  sans  faute  the  whole  court 
shall  be  informed  of  it.  (Bowing  exit. 

President.  (Alone)  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that,  (look- 
ing after  Baron  and  laughing)  Ha  !  ha  i  ha  ! 
Who  can  say  these  creatures  are  good  for  no- 
thing ? — Now  Ferdinand  must  consent  ;  else,  the 
whole  court  will  have  lied — Thank  you,  Baron, 
for  this  visit — very  a  propos  indeed. — I  think  I 
hear  Ferdinand  coming  ;  I  shall  first  try  by  gentle 
means  and  soothing  words  to  draw  him  into  my 
plan  ;  but,  if  they  will  not  doa  I  must  be  resolute. 

Scene  VI. — President  and  Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand.  Agreeably  to  your  commands,  Sir, 
I  have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of  waiting  on 
you. 

President.  Yes,  Ferdinand,  I  did  command  ; 
else,  I  know,  that  I  should  not  see  you  half  S9 


Act  I. 


CABAL    AND  LOVE 


13 


i  often  as  I  wish  to  do— rl  have  observed  of  late, 
[  that  the  lively  and  open  air,  which  was  wont  so  to 

delight  me  in  you,  is  totally  gone — there  is  an  un- 
\  pleasant  gloom  upon  your  countenance.,  that  I 

cannot  bear-^-You  fly  from  me,  your  family,  and 
tiyour  connexions. — Fye  upon  it,  son  !  a  thousand 
■  follies  and  excesses  at  your  age  are  infinitely 

•  more  pardonable  than  one  lowering  cast  upon 
[  your  brow — Dispel  all  care  and  solicitude  ;  leave 

them  to  me — You  know  I  am  constantly  planning 
for  your  happiness — Give  me  your  hand,  Ferdi- 
nand ;  I  have  always  your  welfare  at  heart. 

Ferdinand.    You  are  pleased  to  be  particularly 
gracious  to  day,  Sir. 

President.    To  day  !— and  that  with  one  of  your 
sour  grimaces  loo-*— {seriously.)    Ferdinand,  for 
I  whose  sake  have  I  ventured  in  this  perilous  line  of 
[  life  ;  and  forced  my  way  through  thousand  nE&me- 
I  less  difficulties,  in  order  to  secure  the  Prince'i 
1  heart  ? — For  whose  sake  am  I  forever  at  war  with 
fmy  own  conscience  ? — Listen,  Ferdinand,  (I  am 
speaking  to  my  son)  for  whose  sake  did  I  plunge 
the  dagger  in  my  predecessor's  breast ;  and  shut 
[  my  heart  against  his  imploring  voice  ? — A  tale 

•  which  harrows  up  my  very  soul — -a  tale,  the  par- 
ticulars  of  which,  the  more  1  try  to  conceal,  the 

•  deeper  it  makes  me  feel  the  ever-gnawing  gripe  of 
fca  guilty  conscience — Speak,  Ferdinand,  for 
i.  whose  sake  did  I  all  this  ? 

Ferdinand.  (Stepping  back  with  horror,)  Sure- 
fly  not  for  mine,  Sir  ?— ^Surely  the  bloody  reflect- 
ion of  this  unheard  of  outrage  cannot  fall  on  me  ! 
[  For,  by  the  all-ruling  God  above,  'twere  better 
i  never  to  have  been  born,  than  to  be  doomed  to 
i^answer  for  such  an  attrocious  deed. 

President.    Ungrateful  boy  ! — -And  is  it  thus 
you  make  amends  for  all  my  restless  cares  and 
sleepless' nights  ?  And  do  vou  thus  atone  for  the 
J  (vol.  ii.)  '  X 


14 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act 


disquietude  raging  in  my  breast? — On  me  wouk 
you  have  all  the  burden  of  responsibility  fall  ?— 
On  me  the  curse  and  thunder  of  the  Judge's 
arm  ? — Then  none  of  the  crime  comes  to  your 
share,  because  you  receive  your  honours  second 
hand  ? 

Ferdinand.  I  confess,  Sir,  my  heart  dreads  nc 
scrutiny  upon  past  deeds — that  is  the  test  oi 
truth.  Re-a6l  in  your  own  mind  that  very  time; 
and  pronounce  your  son  an  accomplice  if  you 
can. 

President.  Take  care,  Ferdinand,  and  do  not  rouse 
my  passion — Do  you  know,  that  in  your  twelfth 
year  you  was  made  Ensign  ;  and  in  your  twen- 
tieth, Major.  This  I  procured  you  by  my  solici- 
tations to  the  Prince.  You  are  soon  to  be  much 
higher  advanced — His  Highness  spoke  to  me  the 
other  day  of  an  embassy  abroad — of  your  being 
privy  counsellor,  and  of  your  receiving  many 
other  extraordinary  honours.  To  whom  are  you 
beholden  for  all  this  ? — In  short,  you  have  the  most 
dazzling  prospects  before  you — Does  not  this 
rouse  you,  and  make  you  prize  your  good  fortune 
and  happiness  ? 

Ferdinand.  Not  in  the  least,  Sir — for  your 
ideas  of  happiness  and  mine  are  as  opposite  as 
they  can  possibly  be.  Ambitious  views*  vile  plot- 
tings,  and  cabal,  fill  up  the  courtier's  life — his 
only  bliss  proceeds  from  malice,  interest,  and 
gain. — Such  joys  must  for  ever  meet  with  envy's 
bitter  dregs  and  faction's  clamorous  strife  ;  with 
falsehood's  treacherous  voice,  and  jealousy's  livid 
leer — ( with  warmth)  Thank  Heaven!  mine  is 
another  existence — a  different  mould  of  being 
quite — My  pleasure  springs  from  another  source 
— My  ideas  areofa  nobler  and  a  better  kind  ;  they 
rove  through  paths  of  never-fading  bliss  ;  anc 
from  the  heart  derive  their  purest  joy.  These 


CABAL    AND  LOVE. 


15 


Sir,  are  my  ideas  of  happiness,  which,  while  I 
have  life,  I  shall  not  change  ;  and,  instead  of 
wishing  to  be  decked  with  blushing  honours  and 
exalted  power  ;  to  be  raised  by  servile  means  to 
rank  and  state  ;  and  strut  my  hour  in  empty 
gaudy  pomp,  my  most  fervent  prayer  to  Heaven 
will  ever  he,  not  to  deprive  me  of  that  solid  bliss, 
which  can  alone  proceed  from  a  heart  of  inno- 
cence, and  a  mind  of  truth. 

President.  Bravo!  Incomparable! — The  first 
lesson  I  have  had  for  these  last  thirty  years — 'Tis 
pity,  to  be  sure,  that  my  head  is  too  dull  for  in- 
struclion — But,  however,  in  order  to  exercise 
this  wonderful  talent  of  yours,  I  will  give  you 
some  one,  who  will  have  no  objection  to  listen 
•now  and  then  to  your  eloquence — (sternly)  You 
are  to  determine— this  very  day  to  determine— to 
marry  

•:   Ferdinand.  (Stepping  back  with  astonishment)  Sir  ? 

President.    In  a  word,  then,  I  have  just  sent  a 
'  lote  in  your  name  to  Lady  Milford,  informing* 
her,  that  you  would  this  evening  do  yourself  the 
honour  of  declaring  your  intentions.    You  know 
she  is  partial  to  you. 

E  Ferdinand.  (With  increased  surprize.')  Marry 
Lady  Milford,  Sir?  

B  President.  Nay  no  surprizes — no  starts — the 
tote  said  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  im- 
nediately. 

Ferdinand.  Surprized  ! — Indeed  it  is  truly  ri- 
liculous  in  me,  my  dear  Sir,  to  suppose  you  in 
iarnest,  when  you  can  be  but  in  jest ;  for,  would 
7ou  own  yourself  the  father  of  that  infamous 
coundrel,  who  would  consent  to  marry  the 
5rince's  mistress  ? 

|  President.  Would  I  ? — To  be  sure  I  would— 
end  what  is  more,  I  would  marry  her  myself, 
vere  she  fifty  instead  of  twenty-three.-— Would 
lot  you  then  delight  in  being  my  son  ? 


Id 


cAbal  and  Love. 


Act  L 


Ferdinand*  No,  Sir,  as  true  as  God  is  my  Cre- 
ator. 

President.  That  is  bold  indeed — but  your  rash- 
ness I  forgive.  Ferdinand,  I  am  fixed  and  re- 
solved upon  this  matter — 'Lady  Milford  must  and 
shall  be  yours.  Do  not  forget  your  father's  au- 
thority and  power. 

Ferdinand.  {Animated.}  Paternal  authority  T 
revere — I  hold  it  ever  in  the  utmost  awe  ;  and  I 
respect  it  as  the  first  of  laws.  But,  Sir,  even  tins, 
when  stretched  too  far,  becomes  an  abuse  of  that 
hallowed  trust,  deposed  in  your  hands  for  other 
purposes  and  other  ends.  Nothing  more  sacred 
than  a  father's  authority  ;  and  it  should  be  used 
with  a  delicate  hand.  'Tis  not  a  lawless  power, 
free  from  all  duty  and  from  all  restraint — No, 
Sir,  the  father's  duty  is  as  sacred  as  the  son's — 
A  father's  power  is  subject  and  amenable  to  the 
laws  of  justice  and  of  right  :  and,  when  once 
t  hese  laws  are  spurned,  infringed,  and  overlooked  ; 
then  is  the  son's  duty  by  no  means  violated,  if  he 
resists  his  father's  will  ;  and  scorns  his  hai 
commands — as,  from  my  very  soul,  Sir,  I 
yours — 

President.    (Under  visible  agitation  during  Fer- 
dinand's whole  speech,  but  suppresses  his  anger. ) 
Rash  boy,  forbear  !  nor  try  my  temper  more. 
Do  you  think,  that  there  is  a  single  man  at  court, 
who  would  not  bless  his  stars  for  your  chance  of 
success  with  this  glowing  beauty  ? 

Ferdinand.  Sir,  if  there  be  any  thing  else, 
which  I  can  do  to  serve  your  purposes  ;  to  raise 
you  to  the  very  summit  of  your  ambition,  even 
with  the  hazzard  of  my  life,  I'll  do  it — But,  as 
for  my  honour — that  I  will  never  stain — the  loss 
of  that  I  cannot  survive. 

President.  (Aside.)  Now  I'll  try  for  the  last 
time — Thy  honour,  foolish  boy  ? — Is  not  my  very 


Act  I. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


plan  formed  to  exalt  that  honour,  of  which  you 
are  so  jealous  ;  and  which  you  fear  will  be  im- 
peached by  a  step,  the  execution  of  which  will 
raise  you  to  the  topmost  height  of  honour  ,  and 
make  your  days  pass  on  in  certain  joy  ? 

Ferdinand.  (§hiite  exasperated. J  Since,  Sir,  I 
find  you  really  are  in  earnest  ;  and  see  that  your 
heart  is  base  enough  to  strike  all  nature  from 
your  petrified  frame  ;  and  that  you  wish  me  to 
perform  a  deed,  that  would  forever  seal  my  infa- 
my ;  that  would  root  all  honour  from  my  mind  ; 
and  make  me  hooted,  mocked,  and  despised,  I 
must  unfold  my  heart  to  you — Should  I  e'er  wed 
the  Prince's  loathsome  mistress — Should  I  e'er 
lead  the  strumpet  to  my  bed  ;  and  in  my  igno- 
miny blot  her  stigma  out — Then,  Sir,  oh  !  then, 
sweep  me  from  this  hated  earth — that  hour  the 
wretched  Ferdinand  breaths  his  last — That  hour, 
with  madd'ning  pangs  he  bares  his  breast,  and 
with  a  dagger  arms  his  father's   hand.  (Going.) 

President.  (Stopping  him.)  Not  yet,  young 
fool — I  have  heard  enough  ;  and  now  I  have  found 
you  out — But,  hearken,  Sir,  Lady  Milford  expecls 
you.  I  have  given  my  word  to  the  Prince — Court 
and  city  know  it  by  this  time — If  you  mean  to 
make  me  a  liar  before  his  Highness — her  Lady- 
ship— the  whole  court  and  city-—Or,  do  you  hear  ? 
( signijicantly )  If  I  come  at  the  bottom  of  certain 
stories  that  have  been  told  me — (Ferdinand  is 
frightened)  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  Why  so 
pale  all  at  once  ? 

Ferdinand,    {Pale  and  trembling.)  Nothing,  Sir, 
I  know  of  nothing  

President.  But,  I  do,  Sir,  and  know  the  source 
of  all  your  obstinacy  and  moroseness.  But  mark 
me,  boy — Obey  my  commands,  and  fulfil  the  en- 
gagement of  to  night — or,  dread  a  father's  wrath  ! 

(Exit*. 

25.  *> 


1  s 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  I. 

prise,) 
e  smile 


Ferdinand.  {Alone,  recovering  from  his  surprise. 
Dread  a  father's  wrath  1 — I  dread  ?  ( with  the  smil 
of  self-approbation )  With  these  heavenly  feelings 
of  conscious  rectitude  ?  What,  if  he  knows  the 
whole  ! — that  I  adore  Louisa  ! — When  the  heart 
is  sure  of  being  right  and  of  beating  in  a  just  cause, 
it  mocks  the  very  suggestion  of  all  fear.  The 
mind-soothing  emotions  of  self-content  will  ever  in 
the  hour  of  woe,  secure  our  welfare,  and  preserve 
our  peace — But,  I'll  to  Milford  go,  this  moment 
go — I'll  hold  her  up  a  glass,  where  she  shall  trace 
each  feature  of  my  mind  ;  and  where  she  shall 
view  each  tumult  of  my  soul — If,  in  despite 
this,  she  still  desire  my  hand  ;j  then  in  the  fa( 
of  all  the  glittering  court ;  in  the  full  presence 
her  servile  friends  ;  with  all  her  courtiers  fawi 
ing  round  ;  I  will  reject  her  with  a  manly  pride- 
reproach  her  baseness  with  an  upright  zeal  ;  ai 
pay  her  fondness  with  the  most  marked  contempt 


?,KD  OF   THE   FIRST  a£t. 


Act  II. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


19 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.-— Room  in  Lady  Milford's  House. 

On  the  one  side  is  a  sofa — on  the  other  a  harpsichord 

 Lady  Milford  in  an  elegant  deshabille — Sh<? 

just  sits  down  to  play  ;  but  finding  herself  too  much 
unsettled^  she  rises,  Sophy  just  coming  from  a 
window  which  looks  to  a  plain,  where  there  has  been 
a  review  of  the  Prince's  guards. 

Sephy.  The  review  is  over — the  officers  are  se- 
parating ;  but  I  see  no  Major  Faulkener. 

Lady  Milford.  Sophy,  I  don't  know  what  is  the 
matter  with  me  to  day— -I  am  not  at  all  well.  Then 
you  did  not  see  Major  Faulkener.  He  will  take  his 
own  time,  depend  upon  it,  if  he  comes  at  all— I 
think  I  shall  be  better  in  the  air — Go,  Sophy,  or- 
der the  swiftest  courser  to  be  got  ready ;  I'll  ride 
out  for  an  hour. 

Sophy.  If  your  Ladyship  be  indisposed  to  day, 
it  would  be  better  not  to  go  out,  but  to  have  a 
small  party  at  home  to  night — His  Highness,  I 
am  sure,  will  be  glad  to  spend  the  evening  here  ; 
and,  by  asking  a  few  other  friends  from  court,  you 
might  play  a  comfortable  game  at  ombre,  without 
having  the  fatigue  of  dressing. 

Lady  Milford.  (  Throwing  herself  on  the  sofa ) 
Hold  your  tongue,  girl,  if  you  cannot  say  any 
thing  better — You  are  much  mistaken,  if  you  think 
me  at  present  disposed  to  entertain  such  persons 
as  you  talk  of — people,  who  watch  every  word 
one  utters  ;  and  when  I  perchance  say  any  thing, 
which  in  the  least  degree  indicates  the  warmth  of 
my  mind,  they  stare  with  their  eyes  fixed,  and 
their  mouths  open,  just  as  if  they  saw  a  ghost  or 
a  hobgoblin.    No,  no,  Sophy,  I  never  said  so 


'JO  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  Act  II 

much,  to  you  before  ;  but  I  am  tired  of  them  all 
without  exception — cold  phlegmatic  beings,  who 
live,  'tis  true,  but  that  is  all ;  and  drag  on  an  ex- 
istence, composed  of  nothing  but  the  daily  com- 
mon course  of  lifeless  scenes,  suitable  to  that  order 
of  mortals,  who,  like  them  ;  are  clad  in  apathy. 
( she  goes  to  the  window.  J 

Sophy.  Surely  your  Ladyship  will  except  his 
Highness,  who  is  allowed  by  all  to  be  not  only  one 
of  the  most  graceful,  but  also  one  of  the  most  ac- 
complished men  ever  seen. 

Lady  Mi  If  or  d.  And  you  don't  know,  child,  that 
every  thing  said  and  done  by  the  Prince,  is  by  the 
oily  tongue  of  flattery,  stiled  the  all-perfe£l  and 
the  all-complete  ;  however  deficient  and  vague  such 
things  may  in  reality  be.  You  are  but  little  ac- 
quainted with  the  swarm  of  sycophants,  with  which 
courts  are  constantly  surrounded.  You  tell  me, 
that  I  am  an  object  of  envy  to  almost  every  one ; 
whereas,  knew  they  but  all,  they  would  think  me 
worthy  of  their  pity.  What  are  to  me  the  Prince's! 
grandeur  and  his  tinsel  pomp  ?— Though  he 
can  turn  a  wilderness  into  a  very  Paradise  ;  and1 
can  cause  even  rivers  to  roll  with  geld,  like 
Croesus'  Paclolus  of  old,  can  he  command  his 
heart  to  beat — his  soul  to  glow  and  soar  ?  Can  he 
change  his  lethargic  nature  ?  Can  his  inanimate 
and  clay-cold  mind  answer  to  the  heart- glowing 
emotions  of  passion's  rapturous  warmth  ;  or  satis- 
fy the  beating  pulse  of  love's  soft  gentle  fire  I 

Sophy,  Pray,  Madam,  how  long  ic  it,  that  I 
have  had  the  honour  of  serving  your  Ladyship  ? 

Lady  Milford.  A  very  fair  question,  Sophy — 
because  I  find  this  is  the  first  day  you  ever  knew 
me.  It  is  true,  I  have  sold  the  Prince  my  hon- 
our ;  but,  my  heart  I  have  ever  kept  free — a  heart 
Sophy,  perhaps  well  worthy  of  the  efforts  of  ma- 
ny a  man  to  possess— for,  it  is  as  yet  only  tainted 


Act  II. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


21 

t 


bv  the  poisonous  breath  of  the  court,  as  steel  or 
glass,  which  is  but  overcast ;  and  quickly  re-as- 
sumes its  pristine  lustre.  Believe  me,  I  should 
ldqg  ago  have  shaken  off  this  mighty  Prince,  had 
my  nride  and  ambition  given  me  leave  to  yield  my 
rank  to  any  woman  at  court.  But,  I  see  you  seem 
surprised  at  what  1  say — perhaps  I  have  said  too 
much  ;  for  to  clay  I  know  not  what  I  say — if  so,  let 
me  tie  your  tongue  with  confidence  ;  and  may 
you  once  feel  for  your  wretched  mistress! 

Sophy.  I  hope,  madam,  that  you  never  yet  have 
had  cause  for  distrusting  me  ;  and  I  flatter  myself 
that  it  is  needless  to  renew  my  assurances  of  the 
most  steady  zeal  in  every  thing  which  concerns 
your  Ladyship's  happiness. — But,  madam,  {with 
diffidence)  this  ambition,  this  pride — are  tjiey  so 
difficult  to  suppress,  if  you  find  that  they  lead  to 
nothing  but  vexation? 

Lady  Milford.  We  women  have  but  two  things 
to  choose — to  command  or  to  obey — but,  the  high- 
est delight  of  power  is  nothing,  a  mere  bawble,. 
if  unattended  by  that  bliss  sublime,  that  joy  supreme, 
of  being  at  the  same  time  slaves  to  the  man 
we  adore.  As  for  the  foolish  sway  of  the  sceptre, 
which  has  lately  fallen  to  my  lot,  I  have  ever  look- 
ed upon  it  as  a  child's  play.  But,  Sophy,  whilst 
I  have  been  the  envy  of  every  eye,  have  you  not 
observed  the  wild  agitation  of  this  panting  breast  ? 
-—The  restless  troubles  of  this  fiery  bosom  ? — Did 
you  never  think  them  indicative  of  other  wishes 
and  desires  ?  Did  they  not  discover  a  heart,  torn 
with  anguish  and  with  rage  ?  A  mind  teeming  with 
projects,  impossible  to  fulfil  ? 

Sophy,    {^iiite  surprised)  Madam  ! 

Lady  Milford.  (Animated)  But,  have  a  little 
patience — he  may  still  be  mine — I'll  disappoint 
them  all ;  and  then  revenge  myself — The  man, 
whom  I  worship,  idolize,  and  adore — that  man, 
Sophy,  I  must  call  mine,  or-  Heaven  knows 


33 


CABAL  AND  LOVE 


Act  U. 


what  else  must  be — Oh  !  let  me  hear  from  his  lips, 
that  the  starting  trembling  tear  of  love  more  finely 
glitters  than  the  diamond's  blaze — then,  oh  then  ! 
before  the  Prince's  feet  I'll  hurl  both  sceptre,  heart 
and  all  ;  and  with  this  man  I'll  fly  to  earth's  re- 
motest bounds — But  hear  still  more. 

Sophy.    Madam,  I  am  grieved  at  what  I  hear. 

Lady  Milford.  Fauikener  is  this  man — Know 
that  the  marriage  with  him,  which  I  spoke  to  you 
about — that  you  and  all  the  world  suppose  to  be 
Court  Cabal — (Sophy,  blush  not  for  your  mistress) 
is  only  the  result  of  my  boundless  Love, 

Sophy.    Heavens  !  Can  it  be  possible  ? 

Lady  Milford,  'Twas  all  my  contrivance,  So- 
phy— 'Twas  I,  who  invented  the  report  of  a  cele- 
brated Dutchess  coming  to  court  to  supplant  me 
in  the  Prince's  affection  ;  and  that  his  Highness 
would  be  glad  to  get  me  oft'  his  hands — Oh  1  'tv.  ;ts 
a  noble  plan,  and  hitherto  it  has  admirably  suc- 
ceeded ;  but  the  grand  matter  is  still  to  come — the 
interview  with  Fauikener.    W ould  to  God  it  were 

over !  Thus,  Sophy,  have  I  played  with  these 

state  puppets — these  mighty  sirs  are  by  a  weak  wo- 
man's arts  o'erthrown  ;  and  thus  they  will  lead 
to  rne — to  my  very  arms,  the  man  of  my  heart. — 
If  I  once  have  him — once  call  him  mine  ;  then  an 
eternal  farewell  to  the  vile  and  detestable  splen- 
dour of  deceitful  courts. 

Scene  II.— Enter  an  old  Servant  belonging  to  the 
Prince  ;  in  his  hand  a  case  of  jewels. 

Servant.  I  come  with  his  Flighness  the  Prince's 
respects  to  your  Ladyship.  He  requests  your  ac- 
ceptance of  this  set  of  jewels. 

Lady  Milford.  ( Having  opened  the  case )  And 
pray,  what  might  his  Highness  have  given  for 
these  inestimable  jewels  ? 

Servant.  (With  great  agitation)  They  do  not 
cost  him  a  single  shilling — 


4ct  11. 


CABAL  AMD  LOVE. 


23 


Lady  Milford.    Are  you  mad  ?  Nothing  ?  . 

But,  what  is  the  matter,  man,  that  my  question 
calis  forth  tears  from  your  aged  eyes  ? 

Servant.  Yesterday  seven  thousand  young  men 
were  sent  to  America — -they  pay  for  them — ( xveep- 
ingj  I  have  two  sons  amongst  them. 

Lady  Milford.  (Taking  /lis  hand J  But  still  friend, 
I  hope  volunteers — they  were  not  compelled  to  go. 

Servant.  All  by  compulsion,  Madam— .They 
were  led  away  yesterday,  just  after  your  Ladyship 
and  his  Highness  took  a  ride  out  of  the  city  gates 
— No  sooner  were  they  all  counted  over,  and  their 
names  taken  down,  than  "  Huzza  for  America" 
— was  the  dreadful  word  all  over  the  plain — The. 
trumpets  were  ordered  immediately  to  be  sound- 
ed, and  the  city  drums  to  be  beaten,  in  order  to 
drown  the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  poor  young 
men,  torn  from  their  parents  at  an  instant's  call  ; 
— bride  and  bridegroom  parted  by  the  pointed 
bayonet  and  drawn  broad  sword  ; — father  and  child 
separated  by  the  inhuman  threats  and  oaths  of 
some  bloody  minded  corporal — In  short  Madam, 
language  is  inadequate  to  the  description  of  the 
most  shocking  and  barbarous  scene,  that  ever  was 
witnessed  by  mortal  man. 

Lady  Milford.  A  curse  upon  the  jewels — I  re- 
ject them  : — In  my  heart  they  blaze  like  the  fork- 
ed flames  of  hell — But,  my  good  friend,  be  com- 
forted— these  youths  will  all  come  back  again  to 
their  native  home. 

Servant.  Heaven  alone  knows  that,  Madam — 
Just  as  they  were  out  of  the  city,  they  all  looked 
back  ;  and  with  one  voice  exclaimed — "  God  bless 
you  Father  !  Mother !  at  the  last  day  we  shall  all 
meet  again." — 

Lady  Milford.  (Much  affected )  I  say,  my  honest 
man,  you  shall  have  your  boys  again. 
(Servant  is  going  ;  but  on  Lady  Milford' s  throwing 
into  his  hat  a  purse  of  gold,  he  returns.  J 


CABAL   AX D  L0VK. 


Servant.  (Laying  the  purse  on  the  table )  Lay  it 
to  the  rest  I'll  have  none  of  it.  (Exiti 

Lady  Milford.  ( Much  affected  she  walks  up  ana 
down  the  room  in  thought  )  Sophy,  was  it  not  said 
generally  some  weeks  ago,  that  in  a  neighbouring 
town,  there  had  been  a  lire,  which  had  ruined 
three  or  four  hundred  families  ? 

Sophy.  Yes,  Madam,  but  how  does  your  Lady-! 
ship  come  to  think  of  that  now?  Most  of  them 
are  at  work  at  the  mines. 

Lady  Milford.  ( Rings  a  bell  and  a  servant  enters  ) 
Desire  my  treasurer  to  carry  these  jewels  instant- 
ly to  one  of  the  first  jewellers  ;  and  let  the  pro- 
duce be  equally  distributed  among  the  unfortunate 
families  who  suffered  by  the  late  fire.  (Exit  Servant, 

Sophy.  Does  your  Ladyship  forget,  that  you 
will  thereby  incur  his  Highness's  utmost  displea- 
sure ? 

Lady  Milford.  (Laughing)  Ha!  ha!  ha! — and 
what  is  that  to  me  ? — Would  you  have  me  wear 
the  curse  of  the  whole  land  in  my  hair  ? — Or 
would  you  have  me  sink  beneath  the  weight  o 
the  tears  which  they  must  inevitably  jiave  caused  ? 
— Silly  girl  !  do  you  not  know,  that,  in  exchange 
for  them,  I  shall  have  more  brilliants  and  gems, 
than  are  to  be  found  in  the  diadems  of  an  hundrec 
crowned  heads  ? 

Enter  Servant, 

Servant.    Major  Faulkener,  Madam. 

Sophy.  Heavens  !  Madam,  what's  the  matter  ? 
—You  seem  alarmed. 

Servant.    Should  I  deny  your  Ladyship  ? 

Lady  Milford.  Desire  the  Major  to  walk  up. 
(Exit  Servant.)  Sophy,  don't  I  look  sadly? — You 
had  better  go — for  he  will  not  like  the  presence  of 
a  third  person  (Exit  Sophy.)  Oh!  these  wiljj 
throbs  ! — they  oppress  me  quite. 


A:i  IT. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


I  Scene  III. — Ferdinand  and  Lady  Milford. 

I  Ferdinand.  (Very  coolly)  If  I  am  guilty  of  any 
intrusion,  madam — 

Lady  Milford.  (Visibly  agitated)  Not  in  the 
least,  Major  Faulkener. 

Ferdinand.  I  wait  upon  your  Ladyship  by  my 
father's  desire— 

Lady  Milford.  I  acknowledge  myself  obliged 
to  him. 

Ferdinand.  And  am  commissioned  to  inform 
you,  madam,  that  we  are  to  marry  immediately- 
Such  is  my  father's  will. 

Lady  Miljord.  (With  increased  agitation )  Not 
[yours,  sir— and  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  Major 
Faulkener  ? 

Ferdinand.  By  no  means,  madam,  I  have  some- 
thing more  to  add  ;  but  I  shall  be  brief. 

Lady  Milford.  Will  it  not  be  agreeable,  sir, 
I  to  be  seated  ? 

Ferdinand.  Most  willingly,  madam,  ( drawing 
forward  the  sofa )  Give  me  leave  to  observe  to 
your  Ladyship,  that  I  am  a  man  of  honour — 

Lady  Milford.  Whose  character,  I  know,  claims 
my  highest  esteem. 

Ferdinand.    And  a  soldier. 

Lady  Milford.  No  better  in  the  service- 
But,  sir,  you  speak  of  qualities,  that  others  pos- 
I  sess  in  as  eminent  a  degree  as  yourself. — Why 
are  you  silent  in  regard  to  other  advantages,  in 
which  you  stand  unrivalled? 

Ferdinand.  ( Coolly)  Because,  madam,  I  see  no 
occasion  for  the  mention  of  them  here. 

Lady  Milford.  Pray,  sir,  how  am  I  to  under- 
stand this  ? 

Ferdinand.  (With  pointed  expression )  As  the 
voice  of  wounded  honour,  for  wishing  to  obtain 
my  hand  by  force — as  the  dictates  of  my  heart— 


vol,  II.) 


Y 


*6 


CABAL  AND  LCVK. 


of  justly  offended  pride — and  as  the  language  o 
this  sword. 

Lady  Milford.  That  sword  was  given  you  lr 
the  Prince. 

Ferdinand,  I  must  beg  your  Ladyship's  pardoi 
—I  obtained  it  of  the  State  through  the  hand  o 
the  Prince.  My  pride  and  honour  I  had  from  m;i 
birth  and  character — My  heart  from  God. 

Lady  Milford.  Who  disputes  it,  sir  ?  Who  i 
not  sensible  of  your  bravery  and  honour  as  a  sol 
dier  ;  and  of  your  distinguishing  amability  as  tin 
domestic  man  ? 

Ferdinand.  Lady  Milford,  there  is  nothing  mort 
difficult  to  find  out  than  the  real  ingredients  o 
characters  and  minds  ;  for,  often,  very  often 
those  persons,  who  pass  in  the  eye  of  the  work 
for  upright  people  ;  and  who  are  famed  for  theii 
steadiness  of  conduct,  are  in  reality  by  no  mean? 
deserving  of  the  credit  given  them  ;  and,  were 
their  private  manners  of  life  brought  to  view,  they 
would  probably  be  found  highly  censurable. — My 
ideas  of  comfort  and  felicity  are  very  little  known 
and  may  appear  to  you  very  singular — but,  such 
as  they  are,  I  am  persuaded  they  are  too  deep- 
ly rooted  in  my  mind,  ever  to  admit  of  any  change 
The  busy  bustling  life  of  courts  I  much  dislike  ; 
their  empty  pomp  and  grandeur  I  despise  ;  and 
only  look  to  that  mode  of  life,  where  virtue  and 
integrity  are  caressed. — Having  fulfilled  each  duty 
incumbent  on  me  as  a  Christian  and  a  Man,  1 
consider  all  the  rest  with  the  utmost  indiffer- 
ence— Therefore,  I  think  it  dangerous  for  me  in 
the  extreme,  to  form  a  connection,  where  solid 
joy  and  peace  are  scarcely  known  ;  where  pure 
and  stable  comforts  are  contemned  ;  and  where 
principle  and  rectitude  will  meet  with  cold  neglect 
and  no  return. 

Lady  Milford.  Major  Faulkener,  this  I  have 
not  deserved  from  you. 


Act  II. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Ferdinand.  ( Catching  hold  of  her  hand )  Your 
;iarc!on,  madam,  we  are  alone — the  subject,  the* 
circumstance,  the  occasion,  that  brings  me 
hither — all,  all  justify,  nay  force  me  to  speak 
hus  freely  to  you  ;  and  to  open  to  you  the  very 
recesses  of  my  heart — for,  dots  it  not  shock  cv*en 
Jie  most  common  mind,  to  see  you  so  far  forget 
rourself  ;  so  deplorably  humiliate  yourself  in  the 
;ye  of  the  world  ;  and  above  all,  in  your  own  eye 
—thus  to  remove  every  sacred  band  of  restrain-— 
,;hus  to  burst  and  violate  the  hallowed  laws  of 
lecency  and  decorum — thus  to  unlock  the  very 
springs  of  modesty  and  reserve  ';'  and  with  un- 
guarded warmth  to  rush  into  the  arms  of  a  dull 
leavy  Prince,  who  knows  not  to  value  in  you 
lught  but  your  mere  sex,  which,  having  once 
•apaciously  enjoyed,  he  will  whistle  you  off  his 
lands  ;  and  see  you  then  eclipsed  hi  never- 
iliding  shame,  stained  with  infamy's  eternal  blot. 

Lady  Milford.  (Scarcely  able  to  support  this 
tpeechy  during  which  time  she  makes  frequent  at- 
empts  to  rise,  but  is  as  often  prevented  by  Ferdinand, 
:vho  immediately  catches  hold  of  her  hand. J  Have 
iou  done,  Sir  ? 

Ferdinand.  Nay,  Lady  Milford,  but  to  drag 
)n  this  hated  life — to  plunge  with  ardour,  as  you 
do,  into  this  chaos  of  vice  and  sin  ;  to  dive  into 
:lris  ocean  of  impurity  and  defamation  : — Is  it  not 
the  very  height  of  female  weakness  and  depra- 
vity— rank,  wanton  passion — foul  propensity  to 
pleasure  and  desire  ? — You  call  yourself  a  Briton 
:oo — Make  it  appear  so. — You  a  native  of  that 
far  famed  isle,  for  elevated  ac~ls  of  worth  renown- 
ed ? — Impossible!  a  nation,  proud  of  itself  ;  and 
justly  so — And  can  an  Englishwoman,  doating  on 
the  virtue  of  her  native  home,  so  sink  herself, 
as  to  be  attached — to  cling  to  the  vitiated  morals 
of  our  foreign  climes  ? — (with  increased  animation) 


2  a 


CABAL    AND  LOVE. 


You  a  Briton  ? — You  a  free-born  native  of  the 
freest  country  under  Heaven,  and  sell  yourself  for— 
(looking  at  her  ivith  ineffable  contempt  J —  let  me 
not  say  for  what ;  lest  every  noble  mind  in  Bri- 
tain's fair  domains,  like  Ferdinand  Faulkener  here 
( striking  his  breast )  should,  with  an  honest  pride, 
spurn  and  rej eel  Jane  Milford's  heart  and  hand — 
Madam  I  have  done. 

Lady  Mi  if 'or  d.  (With  both  mildness  and  dignity  J 
This  is  the  first  time,  Major  Faulkener,  that  any 
one  has  ever  dared  to  hold  such  language  to  me ; 
and  you  are  the  only  man,  whom  I  would  deign 
to  answer. — For  rejecting  my  hand,  I  esteem 
you — For  calumniating  my  heart,  I  pardon  you. 
Whoever  presumes  to  offer  an  affront  of  this  kind 
to  a  lady,  who  has  it  in  her  power  to  ruin  him  in 
a  day's  time,  must  either  have  lost  his  senses  ; 
or  must  give  her  credit  for  great  elevation  of 
mind  : — But  you  have  roused  all  the  Englishwo- 
man in  me  ;  and  it  is  but  a  debt  due  to  my  coun- 
try, to  make  you  a  suitable  reply. 

Ferdinand.    Madam,  I  am  all  attention. 

Lady  Milford.  Hear  then,  sir,  what  I  have 
never  yet  disclosed  to  a  single  person  in  the 
world  ;  nor  ever  will  to  any  other,  whilst  I  am 
in  being. — I  am  not  the  wild  adventurer  you  take 
me  for— -I  could  talk  big,  and  boast  of  old  and 
noble  blood  ;  for  I  am  lineally  descended  from 
the  unfortunate  Thomas,  duke  of  Norfolk,  who 
in  the  year  1572,  fell  a  sacrifice  in  the  cause  of 
hapless  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  My  father  was 
accused  of  treacherous  intelligence  with  the  court 
of  France. — He  was  by  a  decree  of  the  Parlia- 
ment of  Great  Britain  condemned,  and  was  ac- 
cordingly beheaded — All  our  estates  became  for- 
feited to  the  Crown  ;  and  we  were  obliged  to  fly 
our  country — My  poor  dear  mother  died  on  the 
very  day  of  my  father's  execution.  I  was  left  an 


Act  II. 


CABAl  AND  LOVE. 


29 


orphan,  fourteen  years  old — came  to  Germany, 
accompanied  only  by  an  aged  governess— a  case 
of  jewels  our  only  means  of  subsistance  ;  and 
this  family  cross,  hung  around  my  neck  by  my 
dear  mother's  hand,  (taking  the  cross  from  her 
bosom.) 

Ferdinand,  (Much  affected  by  this  narrative,) 
Lady  Mil  ford.    My  health  injured  by  incredi- 
ble fatigues — deprived  at  once  of  my  fortune,  and 
of  all  my  dazzling  expectations  ;— without  pro- 
tection, and  devoid  of  friends  : — my  mind  op- 
pressed with  ills  too  weighty  to  support,  I  arrived 
at  Hamburg- — I  had  never  learned  any  thing  but 
a  little  French  and  music  ;  therefore,  there  was 
nothing,  that  I  could  turn  my  hand  to,  in  order 
to  satisfy  the  calls  of  penury  and  want  ;  save  this 
sole  casket,  which  contained  all  our  treasure, 
and  our  whole  resource — Six  years  thus  passed 
in  wretchedness  and  distress — At  length  the  last 
jewel  went  ;  and,  as  if  the  measure  of  my  woes 
was  not  yet  full,  and  aught  was  still  wanting  to 
complete  my  fate,  my  sole   surviving  friend  on 
earth,  my  aged  governess — she,  who  reared  me 
from  my  infant  state,  watched  all  my  years,  and 
trembling  viewed  my  griefs — she,  who  even  in  my 
bitterest  days  was  all  my  mind  could  wish — even 
this  last  source  of  comfort,  by  the  inexorable  and 
unsparing  hand  of  death  was  torn  from  me — Then 
was  I  left  in  the  w  ide  world  defenceless  and  for- 
lorn— Xot  even    the  -  correcting  power  of  time 
could  alleviate  tire   severity  of  this  last  blow,  or 
sooth  my  aching  breast — At  this  time,  fate,  ad- 
verse fate,  brought  your  Prince  to  Hamburg— 
Once  upon  a  summer's  eve  I  do  remember  well  % 
I  walked  along  the   cooling  shore,  and,  fondly 
musing  on  the  Allster's  banks.  I  saw  the  Prince 
approach  me — He  threw  himself  at  my    feet  ; 
■tore  he  had  seeji  me  often,  and  avowed  the  ter^ 
y  2 


SO 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  II. 


derest  passion  for  me — The  piclure  of  my  happy 
childhood  now  struck  my  fancy  with  seducing 
brightness  and  resistless  force, — my  dark  and  la- 
mentable prospecls  of  futurity  now  appeared  in 
their  most  gloomy  form — pleased  with  the 
Prince's  captivating  air, — he  with  a  melting  voice 
imploring  me  to  listen  to  his  vows,— and  my 
warm  heart  susceptible  of  love — all,  all  disarmed 
my  youthful  mind  of  prudence  and  of  thought — 
I  could  no  more,  and  sunk  into  his  arms.  ( Much 
affected.) 

Ferdinand.  Heavens !  Madam,  what  do  I 
hear  ? — Is  it  possible  ? — How  can  you  pardon  the 
unparalleled  afront  that  I  have  offered  to  your 
Ladyship  ? 

Lady  Milford.  Was  it  wonderful,  that  thus 
situated  ;  exposed  to  temptation,  unguarded  by 
wisdom,  I  should  forget  first  the  restraints  of  pru- 
dence, then  the   obligations  of  virtue  ?  The 

Prince  thus  took  me  by  surprize  ;  but  the  blood 
of  the  Norfolks  revolted  within  me,  and  seemed 
to  call  to  me — "  Jane,  born  of  British  blood,  and 
now  a  Prince's  concubine  i" — Pride  and  fate  were 
struggling  in  my  breast,  when  the  Prince  brought 
me  to  this  place,  where  I  was  doomed  to  witness 
a  still  more  tremendous  scene — Like  the- false 
fierce  Hysena,  that  with  voraciousness  and  cun- 
ning seeks  for  its  destined  p-rey,  so  did  I  see  the 
nobles  of  this  land  satisfy  their  pampered  taste- 
To  gratify  their  voluptuousness,  (who  could  have 
thought  it  ?)  the  very  dictates  of  feeling  and  hu- 
manity were  obliterated  by  these  tyrants — the 
laws  of  nature  were  inverted — the  close  and  sa- 
cred ties  between  father  and  child  were  torn  with 
violence  asunder  ;  till  even  all  naiure  was  alarmed 
and  startled  at  their  unheard  of  crimes — 'Twas 
mine  Faulkener  to  step  betwixt  the  tyger  and  the 
lamb  ;   and  from  the  Prince  to  force  an  oath,  a 


Act  II. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


31 


sacred  oath,  that  tyranny  should  cease,  and  that 
humanity  should  reign  again  ! 

Ferdinand.  Did  you,  Madam  ? — Oh  !  'twas 
heavenly  in  you  ;  and  may  your  efforts  meet  their 
just  reward  I 

Lady  Milford.  I  thought  these  execrable  deeds 
were  past,  and  peace  again  restored ;  but  this 
day  I  hear,  that  they  have  recommenced  afresh — 
But  listen — Not  long  after  my  arrival  here,  the 
city  swarmed  with  Parisian  coquettes,  who  came 
to  gain  from  me  the  Prince's  heart  ;  and  some 
succeeded  for  a  little  space,  during  which  time 
they  swayed  the  sceptre,  and  by  their  folly  and 
caprice,  caused  much  blood  to  flow — but  soon 
their  reign  was  o'er — I  saw  them  sink  before  me 
— I  alone  prevailed — I  took  the  reigns  from  off 
his  Highness'  neck,  and  guided  him  aright — He 
owned  my  wisdom  ;  and  with  applauding  smiles 
reposed  in  my  embraces — 'Twas  then  your  country 

!  first  felt  and  perceived  redemption's  hand — (She 
pauses^  then  looks  at  him  with  tenderness ) — Oh  1 
that  the  man,  to  whom  alone  I  wish  to  be  known, 
must  force  me  thus  to  boast,  and  annul  my  vir- 

>  tue,  by  holding  it  up  to  the  light  of  admiration  I 
Faulkener  !  Faulkener  I  I  have  burst  the  very  pri- 
son bars — have  torn  even  death-warrants — it  has 
been  mine  to  pour  the  healing  balsam  into  wounds 
deemed  incurable  ;  and  to  aid  the  cause  of  the 
innocent,  thrown  into  distress  for  want  of  pro- 
tection and  support — And  now  that  man,  comes 
to  accuse  me,  who  alone  can  reward  me — that 
man,  whom  perhaps  my  exhausted  fate  has  at  last 
created  to  atone  for  all  my  sorrows  past — that 
man,  whom  in  my  dreams  already  I  embrace, 
and  clasp  to  my  heart  with  passion's  trembling 
warmth. 

Ferdinand.  (Greatly  agitated  and  stopping  her.) 
No  more — not  a  word  more  for  Heaven's  sake  j 


32 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Ad  II. 


or  I  must  leave  you  this  moment,  though  I  have 
offended  you  beyond  all  hopes  of  pardon — but 
spare  me  now. 

Lady  Milford.  (In  the  softest  tone  of  voice, 
catching  hold  of  his  arm. J  Should  an  unhappy 
miserable  wretch,  oppressed  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  shame  ;  and  shuddering  with  horror 
at  the  retrospect  of  her  past  crimes — Should  a 
penitent  sinner,  labouring  with  the  burden  of  her 
profane  and  impious  life,  feel  herself  at  once  sub- 
limely elevated  by  the  animating  call  of  virtue  ; 
and  thus  throw  herself  into  your  arms  ( eagerly 
rusiiing  into  his  arms )  for  deliverance,  in  order  to 
be  led  back  to  that  path  of  rectitude,  which  she 
has  unguardedly  deserted  ;  and  to  be  restored  to 
that  Heaven,  forfeited  by  her  guilt  and  impru- 
dence ;  can  you  start  back  from  that  fervid  bo- 
som, glowing  with  passionate  warmth — Can  you, 
I  ask,  by  so  doing,  drive  such  a  one,  in  sad  obe- 
dience to  despair,  to  plunge  and  riot  still  deeper 
in  the  vast  and  boundless  ocean  of  infamy  and 
vice  ? — Can  you  willingly  cause  a  hapless  being,, 
(daring  even  the  face  of  the  almighty,  and  shut- 
ting her  heart  against  all-self  admonition)  to  rush  at 
once  into  the  immense  torrent  of  irreparable  ruin 
and  destruction  ;  and  scorn  the  thoughts  of  eter- 
nity's tremendous  scene  ( much  affected  and  with 
great  emotion  J — You  talked  just  now  of  Christian 

duty — Faulkener  awake  !  Be  not  the    man  of 

words. 

Ferdinand.  ( Rising  in  great  agitation.)  Madam,, 
in  honour  I  can  hear  no  more — I  must  make  you 
a  free  and  open  confession  of  a  circumstance, 
which,  did  you  but  know,  you  would  cease  to 
wound  me  with  solicitations  I  can  never  grant. 

Lady  Milford.  Not  now — Not  now,  by  all  that 
is  sacred  I  cannot  hear  it  now — My  affli6ted  heart 
is  bleeding  with  a  thousand  stabs — Be  it  life,  oil 
death,  I  cannot  hear  it  now  !  (g°'ngj 


Act  II.  CABAL  AND   LOVE.  33 

Ferdinand.  (Taking  hold  of  her  arm  and  pres- 
sing her  to  stay. J  Indeed,  Madam,  you  must  ; 
you  must  hear  what  I  have  to  say  ;  for  it  will 
not  only  apologize  for  my  blamable  conduct  to- 
wards you  ;  but  will  be  a  sufficient  mitigation  for 
all,  that  is  past — I  have  been  much  mistaken  in 
you  Lady  Jane — I  expected,  and  hoped  to  find 
you  an  object  for  my  contempt — I  came  hither, 
determined  to  excite  your  fiercest  hatred  and  re- 
sentment— Happy  had  it  been  for  both,  if  my 
plan  had  been  crowned  with  success — for,  be  not 
surprized,  if  I  disclose  to  you  a  secret,  and  ac- 
quaint you,  that  my  heart  is  engaged — (Lady 
Milfo>-d  starts  back  in  anguish )  Yes  Lady  Jane, 
my  affections  are  rooted  ;  and  my  soul  hangs 
with  idolatry  on  my  angelic  Louisa — Be  not  dis- 
pleased ;  for  I  am  blessed,  when  I  further  tell 
you,  that  she  is  not  of  rank,  but  the  daughter  of 
Miller,  that  unfortunate  old  man,  who  from  loss- 
es in  trade,  now  turns  to  his  music  for  support. 

Lady  Milford.  ( Clasps  her  hands  in  astonish- 
ment, and  walks  away  from  him, J 
I  Ferdinand,  (Following  her,)  Your  looks  de- 
note astonishment ;  and  you  seem  to  think,  that 
both  reason  and  sense  should  have  taught  me  to 
overcome  a  passion,  so  beneath  my  birth — If  so, 
I  say,  that  duty  claims  a  previous  thought ;  for  I 
alone  was  culpable — 'Twas  I,  who  first  disturbed 
her  golden  days  of  peace  ; — Even  now  she  dreads 
the  great  disparity  between  us  ;  and  will  not  yet 
consent,  that  I  should  lead  her  to  the  altar,  and 
call  her  forever  mine — Does  not  the  voice  of 
duty  loudly  call  upon  me  J1,  to  fulfil  her  sacred  will  ? 
and  quickly  to  restore  the  lovely  maid  her  wont- 
ed peace  of  mind — This  can  never  be,  until  she 
is  wholly  mine  ;  and  Lady  Jane,  it  must  be  done  \ 
for,  need  I  ask,  what  is  cool  reason  to  resistless 
love  ? 


°4  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  Act  II, 

Lady  Milford.  (With  the  expression  of  great 
affliction* )  Major  Faulkener,  you  are  going  to 
precipitate  yourself,  me,  and  a  third  person  into 
irrecoverable  ruin. 

Ferdinand,    Yourself,  me,  and  a  third  person  ?  ! 
I  do  not  understand  you,  Madam. 

Lady  Milford,  Then  mark  my  words  :  (With 
pointed  expression, J  We  must  all  infallibly  be 
victims  to  your  father's  fatal  precipitancy — My 
passion  gives  way  to  my  tenderness ;  but  my  ho-^ 
nour  cannot.  Our  marriage  is  by  this  time  the 
talk  of  all  the  land — The  indignity,  the  affront, 
which  I  suffer,  in  being  rejected  by  a  subject  of 
the  Prince,  are  indelible — All  eyes  are  upon 
me — Already  envy  triumphs  ;  and  her  sneer  is ; 
fixed. — Manage  you  matters  with  your  father  as 
you  please — only  remember,  that  I  shall  move 
heaven  and  earth,  to  avert  the  shafts  of  ignominy 
and  scorn,  which  with  fury  and  spleen  will  be 
hurled  against  my  stigmatized  breast.  (Exit  in 
violent  agitation,  Ferdinand,  quite  confounded,  fol*$M 
lowing  her. 

Scene  IV. —  The  Scene  changes  to  a  Room  in  Mil- 
ler's   House,    Louis  a  just  rises  from  her  harp-  j 
sichord,    and  is  going   to  leave  the   room  ;  but 
meeting  her  Father  just  entering,  she  says  to  him, 

Louisa,  Has  not  the  Major  been  here  within 
these  three  hours  ? 

Miller,  No,  child — I  have  not  seen  him  ;  and 
from!  my  love  to  you,  I  say,  that  I  most  sincere- 
ly wish,  that  he  would  never  enter  these  doors 
again — Hush  ! — I  think  I  hear  him  now  coming  up. 

Scene  V. — Enter  Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand,  ( Entering  frightened  and  out  of 
breath.)  Has  my  father  been  here  ? 

Louisa,  (Alarmed.)  His  father  ? — Gracious 
God  ! — What  will  become  of  us  ? 


Ski  II. 


CABAL  AND  LOTK. 


%5 


Miller.    Let  him  but  come. 

Ferdinand.  {Eagerly  embracing  Louisa.)  Thou 
art  mine,  Louisa  ;  were  even  the  celestial  pow- 
ers to  intervene — Oh  !  let  me  once  more  repose 
upon  that  heavenly  breast. — Such  an  hour  is  just 
now  past. — Oh,  Louisa  !  it  was  a  terrible  one. 

Louisa.  Oh,  speak  ! — What  hour  I — Let  me 
but  know  the  worst. 

Ferdinand.    An  hour,  my  life,  when  'twixt  my 
heart    and    thee,  did  a  third  person  force  her 
powerful  way — an  hour,  when  my  own  conscience 
checked  me  for  my  love — an    hour,   when  my 
Louisa  ceased  to  be  all  my  bliss  on  earth. 

Louisa.  ( She  sinks  down  on  a  chair  quite  de- 
pressed.) 

Ferdinand.  ( Pauses  and  Jixes  his  eyes  on  her 
with  sxtreme  fondness. J  No— never — never,  Mil- 
ford,  you  ask  too  much. — No — by  the  eternal 
God  above,  I  will  not  violate  my  oath,  which 
i  warns  me  like  Heaven's  own  thunder,  through 
that  fading  eye. — Milford  look  there  !  and  wonder, 
if  you  can — There  fix  your  eyes,  if  you  dare 
own  a  heart  of  feeling — And  you  too,  unnatural 
sire  !  hither  direct  your  austere  looks  ;  then  bid 
me,  if  you  can,  lead  this  heavenly  lamb  to  sacri- 
fice and  fate. — That  bosom  you  would  have  me 
turn  into  a  scene  of  hell — But  I  will  thwart  your 
narrow  schemes — defeat  your  malice,  and  con- 
front your  rage  ( with  animation) — Yes,  I'll 
condu6l  her  to  the  throne  of  God  ;  and  the  all- 
righteous  Judge  will  there  attest,  that  passion, 
founded  as  mine  is,  forms  the  grand  ultimatum 
of  all  earthly  bliss. — Courage,  my  beauteous 
love  1  I  return  triumphant  from  the  perilous 
strife. 

Louisa.  Something  lurks  beneath  those  words — 
I  dread  the  event — But  tell  me  all — Declare  the 
sentence,  awful  tho'  it  be  ;  and  unrepining  I'll 


36 


CABAL  AND  LOVE* 


Act 


submit  to  fate. — Thou  spokest  just  now  of  Lady 
Milford — I  fear  to  ask  it — But  what  of  Milford's 
name  ? — I  am  told  she  is  going  to  be  married. 

Ferdinand.  To  me,  Louisa — such  is  my  fa- 
ther's will. 

Louisa.  ( Pauses,  then  with  the  deepest  anguish.) 
But  why  this  tremor  and  surprise  ? — The  old 
man  told  me  long  ago  I  never  could  be  thine  ; 
but  I  believed  him  not  (She  runs  weeping  into  her 
father's  arms.)  Father,  take  back  your  daughter 
to  your  indulgent  arms. — Pardon,  dear  lather, 
the  fault  was  not  your  child's. 

Miller*  My  Louisa  !  my  child  !  my  only 
child  ! — (Turning  to  Ferdinand.)  Oh,  Major! 
Major  !  What  wretchedness  have  you  not  entailed 
on  my  poor  aged  head  ! — See  there,  ( Pointing  to 
Louisa.) — Ho  w  altered  from  her  former  self  ! 
How  sunk  beneath  sharp  sorrow's  blighting  blast! 

Ferdinand.  But  it  will  soon  be  over — for,  all 
my  father's  plans  I  will  soon  counteract,  and 
restore  to  you,  old  man,  peace  and  joy.  {Going.) 

Louisa.  O^go  not  now — but  stay — Did'st  thou 
not  say  thy  father  would  be  here  ? — Oh,  do  not 
quit  us  in  this  dreadful  hour. 

Ferdinand.  (Taking  Louisa's  hand.)  As  I  do 
hope  for  mercy  on  my  soul,  and  wish  for  pardon 
in  the  hour  of  death,  hear  and  receive  my  hal- 
lowed oath — that,  that  moment,  which  separates 
these  hands,  unlinks-also  the  chain  of  existence 
between  the  world  and  me.  (Looki?ig  rather 
wild.) 

Louisa.  Hold  !  be  not  rash — thou  tremblest 
and  art  pale — thine  eye-balls  roll — Ferdinand, 
look  not  so,  thou  tervifiest  me. 

Ferdinand.  Fear  not,  Louisa,  I  do  not  trem- 
ble ;  nor  am  I  pile.  If  my  eye-balls  roll,  they 
do  but  tell  thee  that  my  mind  is  fixed.  Heaven 
has  not  a  more  exquiste,  nor  a  more  admirable 


Act  II. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


gift  to  make,  than  those  precious  and  delightful 
moments  ;  when  the  heart,  pent  up,  and  strug- 
gting  with  its  pain,  is  by  some  blessed  and  un- 
[l heard  of  grace  relived — That  was  just  now  my 
lease.    Now  to  my  father — (Goings  he  meets  the 
:•  President^  ivho  just  enters.') 

Scene  VI.— 'Enter    President   with  a  retinue 
of  Servants. 

President.    (Entering.)   Oh,  there  he  is! 
Ferdinand.    In  the  house  of  innocence. 
President.     (Turning  to  Miller.)  Are  you  the 
t  father  ? 

I  t  Miller.    My  name  is  Miller. 

Ferdinand.  (Speaking  to  Miller.)  Ycu  had 
better  lead  Louisa  out  of  the  room  j  for  I  am 
afraid  she  is  very  ill. 

President.  There  is  no  occasion  for  that— I'll 
go  to  her — (To  Louisa.)  How  long  have  you 
been  acquainted  with  the  President's  son  ? 

Louisa.  That  is  a  question,  sir,  which  I  have 
never  asked — Major  Faulkener  I  have  known 
since  last  November. 

President.  Has  he  ever  given  you  "any  assur- 
ances ? 

Ferdinand.  Of  the  most  sacred  kind,  some 
I  minutes  ago,  invoking  Heaven  to  attest  my  hal- 
lowed vows. 

President.  Will  you  be  silent,  sir?  (To  Lou* 
isa. )  I  wait  for  a  reply. 

Louisa.    He  has  sworn  me  love. 

President.    Did  you  accept  of  his  rash  oath  ? 

Louisa. '  Our  vows  were  mutual. 

President.  As  is  usual  with  girls  of  your  dis- 
solute line  of  life. 

-.Ferdinand*  (In  a  rage)  Hell  ! — What  was 
!  that  ? 


(vol.  n.) 


Z 


33 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  II. 


Louisa.  {With  dignity)  Major  Foulkener,  now 
you  are  free. 

Ferdinand.  Sir,  let  me  tell  you,  tho'  I  see  you 
know  it  not,  that,  virtue,  even  in  the  beggars 

grab,  commands  respect. 

"^President.  Very  pretty  indeed  ! — the  father  is 
to  respect  the  son's  mistress  I 

.  Louisa.  Heavens  and  earth  ! — Is  it  come  to 
this  ? 

Ferdinand.  Sir,  you  had  once  a  fife  to  ask  of 
me — It  is  now  paid.  From  this  hour  all  obliga- 
tions of  filial  piety  are  cancelled. 

Miller.  {Coming  forward.)  Your  Excellency 
must  give  me  leave  to  say,  that  I  think  your 
conduct  in  my  'house  exceedingly  improper  and 
highly  blamable. — Hitherto  1  have  been  silent  ; 
but,  if  I  witness  a  single  affront  more  to  my 
child,  I  shall  forget  the  difference  between  us  ; 
and  give  her  that  protection,  which  becomes  her 
father. 

President.  {F.nraged.)  Rascal  !  Villain  ! — What 
do  you  mean  by  this  impudence  to  a  man  of  my 
character  ? — But  I'll  soon  manage  matters  for 
you,  depend  upon  it. 

Miller.  {Indignant.)  Rascal  ?  Villain  ? — Sir, 
do  you  imagine,  that  this  language  becomes 
you  ? — Or  do  you  think,  that  it  adds  to  your 
dignity  of  station  ? — If  so,  I  pity  you,  Sir  ;  and 
look  with  sovereign  contempt  on  the  man,  who  is 
incapable  of  feeling  his  superiority  which  is  the 
mere  result  of  adventitious  chance,  without  the 
low  despicable  insolence  of  triumph. 

President.  {To  some  of  his  servants.)  Get 
some  constables  immediately — {Servants  exeunt)— 
{walking  about  the  room  in  a  rage)  To  prison  wiih 
that  old  varlet — to  the  pillory  with  the  girl- 
Justice  shall  satisfy  my  wrath  ;  and  this  affront 
shall  be  dearly  paid  for.-— That  such  a  scoundrel 


Act  II. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


\  should  counteract  my  plans  !—  Damnation  ! — 
l   Shall  these  wretches  go  unpunished  for  setting 
\   thus  the  father  against  the  son  ? — No — the  whole 
[  race — father,  mother,  and  girl,  shall  be  victims 
I  to  my  vehemence,  and  rage. 

Ferdinand.     ( His  eyes  constantly  Jixed  on  Louisa 

with  great  anxiety.  J  Be  not  afraid — I  am  with  you. 
|  I  will  see  no  force  or  violence  used  against  you. 
[  (turning  to  his  father )  Be  not  too  hasty,  sir.  If 
r  you  have  any  regard  for  yourself  or  me,  use  no 
;  violence.  There  is  a  place  in  my  heart,  where  the 

name  of  father  has  never  yet  been  heard  ;  I  pray 
I  you,  sir  press  not  there — pierce  not  the  regions 
;  of  that  sacred  sphere  ;  lest,  unawares,  and  quite 
|  thrown  off  my  guard,  I  utter  things— then,  sir, 
p  nature  will  shudder  at  un thought  of  crimes,  com- 
I  mitted  by  a  man,  requted  just. 

President.  Peace,  senseless  fool  ! — nor  dare  to 
I  raise  my  fury  higher  than  it  is. 

Miller.  I'll  see,  whether  justice  can  be  done  to 
\  injured  innocence — I'll  go  this  instant  to  his 
J  Highness  the  Prince,  and  look  for  mercy  in  a 

case  like  ours. 

President.    To    the  Prince — do   you  say  ?— . 

Don't  you  know,  blockhead,  that  I  am  the  thresh- 
|  old,  over  Avhich  you  must  unavoidably  pass  of 
I  break  your    neck  ? — To  the   Prince  ? — Yes,  li 

you  have  a  mind  to  be  all  your  days  locked  up  in 
I  a  tower  forty  feet  high. 

Scene  VII. — Enter  Constables. 

Ferdinand.  ( Runs  to  Louisa,  ivho  is  overpowered 
by  her  fears,  and  rests  on  Ferdinand's  bosom )  Help  ! 
help  !  this  instant  help  ! — Louisa! — Her  fears  have 
quite  overpowered  her. 

>  Miller.  C Putting  on  his  hat,  and  taking  down  his 
cane  that  hangs  upon  a  nail  in  the  corner  of  the  room  J 
With  all  my  heart,  if  it  must  be. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


Act  II. 


President,  Lay  hold  of  the  girl,  ( to  the  consta- 
bles )  I  say — In  the  name  of  his  Serene  Highness, 
your  Prince,  I  charge  you  to  lay  hold  of  her  im- 
mediately. 

Constables*  ( Are  going  to  obey  the  President's  com- 
mands  ). 

Ferdinand,  ( Protecting  Louisa )  Keep  your  dis- 
tance, rascals  !  or  dread  my  furious  wrath. 

President.  (To  \he  Constables )  Mind  what  I  say, 
blockheads,  or  

Constables.    ( Forcing  their  way  towards  Louisa.) 

Ferdinand.  Off!  dire  bloodhounds,  off! — nor, 
on  your  lives  approach  another  step ! 

President.  Must  I  speak  again,  scoundrels  ?— . 
Lay  hold,  I  say. 

Constables.  ( Again  forcing  their  way  towards 
Louisa  ). 

Ferdinand.  (^uite  enraged,  he  takes  both  sword 
and  sheath  from  his  side  and  forces  back  the  Consta- 
bles )  Villains  !  again  I  warn  you  to  keep  your  dis- 
tance— ( to  his  father )  Sir,  I  would  advise  you  not 
to  drive  me  to  extremity. 

President.  (To  the  Constables)  Slaves!  as  you 
value  your  bread,  obey^my  commands. 

Ferdinand.  Sir,  I  once  more  beg  of  you  not  to 
drive  me  to  extremity. 

President.  (To  the  Constables')  Don't  mind  my 
son — Lay  hold,  I  say. 

Constables.  (With  increased  violence  forcing  their 
%uay  towards  Louisa.) 

Ferdinand.  If  it  must  be,  Justice!  pardon  me. 
( Draws  his  sword,  and,  in  defending  Louisa,  lie 
wounds  some  of  the  Constables.) 

President,  (Enraged)  I'll  see,  whether  I  am  to 
feel  too  the  point  of  his  sword — (the  President  forces 
his  way  towards  Louisa  ;  lifts  her  from  the  grounit 
and  gives  her  to  the  Constables.) 

Ferdinand.  Sir,  you'll  drive  me  desperate—- 
Rage  is  in  my  heart— -  Do  you  persist  ? 


Act  II. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


41 


President.    Away  with  her — {to  the  Constables.} 
Louisa  is  now  between  two  Constables  3  the  one 
having  hold  of  her  right  hand,  the  other  of  her  left. 

Ferdinand.  (Pushes  back  with  force  one  of  the  Con- 
stables; then,  he  puts  one  arm  around  Louisa's  waist ; 
with  the  other  he  rests  the  point  of  his  sword  against 
her  breast)  Do  you  persist,  sir? — Rather  than  my 
Louisa  should  endure  your  affronts,  I'll  pierce  her 
to  the  heart  {Still  resting  the  sivord  on  Louisa's 
breast)  Do  you  persist,  sir  ? 

President.  Push  home,  I  say,  if  the  point  of 
your  sword  will  do. 

Ferdinand.  ( Leaving  hold  on  Louisa,  and  putting 
up  his  sword  J  Almighty  God  1  who  seest  the  emo- 
tion of  all  hearts,  thou  art  witness,  that  I  have 
left  no  human  means  untried — Now  I  am  com- 
pelled to  use  diabolical  ones- — {to  the  Constables, 
with  an  elevated  voice)  Away  with  her  to  prison  I 
(;Stari?ig  wildly  and  grasping  his  father's  arm  with 
eagerness  ;  then  whispering  into  his  ear,  yet  so  as  to  be 
heard)  In  the  mean  while  I  must  to  Court ;  and 
tell  'em  all  a  tale,  whereby  they  may  know  the 
shortest  way  to  get  at  a  President's  chair. 

{Exit  hastily* 

President.  ( Thunderstruck )  Stop!  Ferdinand, 
stop  ! — Come  back  1  I  say — (  To  the  Constables  quite 
vlarmed J  Set  her  free  this  moment.  (ExiU 


1ND  OF  THE   SECOND  ACT* 


42 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Ad  III 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — A  Room  in  the  President's  Hous 
Enter  President  and  Secretary  Worm. 

President.    This  affair  turned  out  cursedly  u 
lucky. 

Worm.  Exactly  as  I  expected,  begging  you 
Excellency's  pardon — Y©u  should  have  been  a  lit 
tie  more  upon  your  guard — He  did  before  threate 
to  disclose  the  whole. 

President.  Yes — but  I  did  not,  I  could  not  be 
lieve  him  in  earnest — I  considered  it  merely  as  th 
result  of  passion  ;  and  I  paid  no  attention  to  wha 
he  said — But  when  I  reflect  in  cool  blood  upon  th 
manner  in  which  he  warned  me  not  to  make  hi 
desperate,  I  confess  I  did  wrong  to  trust  to  hi 
so  far — However,  there  is  no  harm  done  ;  you  re 
called  him  in  time,  and  told  him  that  his  girl  wa 
set  free  by  my  command. 

Worm.    I  did,  sir  ;  and  saw  him  return  to  Mi" 

ler's  where  I  suppose  that  he  now  is  But  giv_ 

me  leave  to  observe  to  your  Excellency,  that  you 
did  very  wong  ever  to  have  given  your  son  the 
smallest  hint  about  your  pedecessor's  death.  You 
know  the  principles,  that  he  imbibed  early  at  col- 
lege.— The  upright  notions  of  honour  and  truth, 
to  which  he  has  hitherto  been  a  very  slave,  must 
render  him  a  very  unfit  person  to  be  entrusted  with 
st  secret  of  this  kind, 

P  esident.  But,  to  be  sure,  Worm,  you  are  not 
ignorant  of  my  motives  for  so  doing — I  fondly 
thought  to  have  found  in  him  the  same  ambitious 
views,  that  I  have — I  expected  him  to  have  been 
rejoiced  at  the  news  ;  and  disposed  to  second  my 
plans  towards  the  fulfilling  all  my  darling  pojects. 
—But  you  know,  how,  I  have  been  mistaken,  and 
how  I  have  been  thwarted  in  every  thing  I  have 
undertaken. 

Worm*    We  will  not  give  up  all  yet,  sir.— To 


.  Act  IIL  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  4S 

be  sure,  there  was  no  occasion  for  your  son  Fer- 
.  dinand  to  have  known  any  thing  about  this  affair; 
for,  what  could  be  better  managed  ?  You  ask- 
ed your  predecessor  to  supper — he  came — You 
were  alone  together— You  finished,  I  remember, 
a  couple  of  bottles  of  Burgundy  ;  then  called  for 
cards  ;  and  at  piquet  you  sat  till  four  o'clock  the 

next  morning.  He  never  heard  it  strike  five 

Every  one  lamented  the  apoplectic  fit,  that 
carried  him  off  so  suddenly  ;  and  you  were  unan- 
imously elected  his  successor.    Was  it  not  all  ad- 
I  mirably  managed  ? 

President.  But,  what  signifies  the  mention  of 
all  this  now  ? — The  harm  is  done,  and  cannot  be 
undone — I  almost  despair  of  success  at  present— 
the  game  is  over. 

Worm.    Your  Excellency's  pardon — You  have 
still  cards  left  in  your  hands,  whereby  you  may  yet 
recover  your  game* — I  have  apian,  which,  if  fol- 
•  lowed  I  am  sure,  cannot  fail  of  success. 

President.  Come,  come,  let  us  hear  it  this  mo- 
ment. 

Worm.  I  must  be  most  egregiously  mistaken  in 
all  my  observations  on  human  nature,  if  the  Ma- 
jor be  not  a  man  of  remarkably  strong  passions, 
and  quick  feelings — consequently,  under  the  im- 
pulse of  jealousy  he  must  be  as  violent  as  he  is 
under  that  of  love — Now,  Sir,  my  plan  is,  to  work 
him  up  to  as  high  a  pitch  of  jealousy  as  we  possi- 
bly can — This  to  effect,  wTe  have  only  to  make  him 
suspicious  to  this  Louisa  Miller  •  and  to  go  to 
work  with  such  cunning  and  art,  as  at  last  to 
render  her  to  him  an  object  of  the  utmost  detes- 
tation. 

President.  Yes,  Worm,  but  how  ? — 'Tis  a  very 
good  plan,  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  prove  to  be  one 
of  your  impracticable  ones. 

Worm.  I  pledge  myself  to  your  Excellency  to 
put  it  into  execution — First,  be  so  kind  as  to  open. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  111. 


your  mind  a  little  to  me — How  far  do  you  mean 
to  persist  in  this  alliance  with  Lady  Milford  ? 

President.  What  a  question  !  Don't  you  know, 
that  all  my  power  is  in  danger,  if  I  do  not  ulti- 
mately succeed  in  this  affair — Consider  how  the 
matter  stands — Court  and  city  talk  of  nothing  else 
— Lady  Milford  has  not  denied  the  truth  of  the 
report  ;  therefore,  if  the  match  now  go  off,  I  do 
not  know,  what  may  be  the  consequence  ; — for  it 
is  madness  to  suppose,  that  her  Ladyship  will  put 
up  with  an  affront  of  this  kind  without  revenging 
herself  upon  the  author  to  the  utmost  of  her  pow- 
er— And  who  is  the  author  but  the  President  ?— - 
Who  would  have  thought  Ferdinand  fool  enough  to 
reject  a  connection  of  the  highest  kind  ? — Worm, 
we  must  bring  it  about  some  way  or  other  : — or, 
ruin  may  ensue  

Worm.  Now  I  see,  sir,  how  the  land  lies  ;  and 
I  know  what  I  have  to  do — The  Major  must  be  en- 
tangled in  the  nicest  web  of  subtlety  and  craft— * 
As  for  the  girl ; — the  very  power  which  she  pos- 
sesses over  him,  will  prove  our  most  propitious 
weapon — What  we  have  to  do,  is  this — We  must 
so  contrive,  as  to  exact  from  her  a  love-letter  to 
a  third  person,  written  by  her  own  hand,  which 
letter  we  must  carefully  throw  in  the  Major's  way 
—Your  Excellency  will  be  pleased  to  consider  what 
I  say — her  own  hand-writing  to  be  read  by  her  own 
doating  Major — If  this  medicine  do  not  operate, 
dismiss  Worm  the  next  morning. 

President.  {Phased)  A  droll  idea,  upon  mf 
soul — But  do  you  take  the  girl  for  an  ideot  ? — Do 
you  suppose,  that  she  will  quietly  sit  down,  and 
sign  her  own  death's  warrant? 

Worm.  She  must  and  will,  if  you  leave  the  bu- 
siness in  my  hands — I  know  her  thoroughly—- 
There  are  but  two  weaksides,  that  we  can  possi- 
bly work  upon,  namely,  her  father  and  the  Me* 


Act  III. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


41 


•  jor — Now,  after  the  scene,  that  passed  at  Miller's 
:  this  morning,  nothing  is  easier  in  the  whole  world, 
r  than  to  threaten  the  old  man  with  an  action — In 
the  mean  time,  we  must  arrest  him  immediately  ; 
J  —And  having  secured  him,  this  precious  letter  I 
just  now  mentioned  to  you,  mast  be  forced  from 
>  the  girl,  as  a  ransom  for  the  father's  deliverance — 
To  ensure  our  success,  the  mother  must  be  like- 
i  wise  secured — then  leave  the  rest  to  me — I  shall 
I  instantly  go  to  the  girl ;  and  obtain  the  letter,  as  the 
I  sole  existing  means  of  freeing  her  father  and  mo- 
\  ther  from  imprisonment  and  risk  of  death. 

President.  Yes,  but  Worm,  don't  let  the  matter 
be  too  serious, 

Worm.  Oh  dear  Sir,  it  cannot — Your  Excel- 
lency cannot  imagine  how  she  doats  on  her  father 
—The  danger  of  his  life  ;  the  reflection  of  having 
it  in  her  power  to  release  him  ; — the  reproaches 
of  her  own  conscience  in  having  been  accessary 
to  his  confinement ; — the  utter  impossibility  of 
ever  being  able  to  possess  the  Major  ; — all,  all 
will  most  powerfully  coincide  to  forward  the  com- 
pletion of  the  scheme — She  must  inevitably  fall 
into  the  snare. 

President.  But  you  do  not  consider  my  son- 
should  he  get  the  smallest  hint  or  item  of  the  mat- 
ter, all  our  designs  will  again  be  air. 

Worm.  I  shall  take  care  of  that — there  shall  be 
nothing  to  apprehend  ;  for,  after  she  has  written 
the  letter,  I  shall  tell  her,  that  even  that  will  nought 
avail,  if  she  does  not  take  a  solemn  oath,  never  to 
reveal  the  subject  of  that  letter  to  any  one  in  be- 
1  ing. 

President.  Pshaw  ! — What's  in  an  oath  Worm  ? 

Worm.  Nothing,  Sir,  to  you  or  to  me,  but  to 
them  a  very  bulwark  to  overleap — Take  my  word 
for  it,  Sir — it  will  do — And  if  it  should  fall  out 
as  I  expect,  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  conciliate  mat' 


46 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  III, 


ters  with  the  parents  ;  and  to  convince  the  girl, 
that  my  views  were  perfectly  upright,  I  will  of- 
fer immediate  marriage. 

President.    (Much  pleased.)    Ah   Worm  !  1 

give  up  to  you— -'tis  Satan's  own  web,  you  dog ! 
'tis  well  contrived  : — the  scholar  beats  his  master 
all  to  pieces — Now  the  only  question  is — to  whom 
shall  this  letter  be  directed  ?  Who  is  to  be  this 
third  person — (After  a  little  thought,)  Why  not 
Baron  Mindheim  ? 

Worm.  With  all  my  heart,  Sir, — Only  were 
my  name  Louisa  Miller,  the  Baron  certainly 
would  not  be  the  object  of  my  choice. 

President.  Why  not  ? — a  plenty  of  cash — an 
emperors  wardrobe — but  a  pretty  ninny,  sure 
enough — But  he  will  do  for  our  Purpose.  I  shall 
ring  the  bell,  and  send  for  the  Baron.  (Rings.) 

Worm.  And  whilst  your  Excellency  is  occupied 
about  the  warrant,  I  shall  go  and  compose  a  let- 
ter, proper  for  the  subject. 

President.  Very  well,  only  let  me  see  it,  when 
it  is  finished.  {Exit  Worm. 

(The  President  goes  to  the  table  in  order  to  write 
the  warrant. J 

Enter  Servant. 

President,  Here  take  this  warrant  and  tell  the 
constables,  that  it  must  be  put  immediately  into 
execution — Bid  some  of  the  other  servants  step  to 
Baron  Mindheim  with  my  compliments  ;  and  if 
it  be  convenient  to  him,  I  should  be  obliged  to  him 
to  favour  me  with  his  company  for  half  an  hour. 

Servant.  The  Baron's  carriage,  Sir,  just  stops 
at  your  door. 

President.    Oh  then — desire  him  to  walk  up. 

( Exit  Servant* 


Act  III. 


CABAL  AMD  LOVE. 


Scene  II. — President  and  Baron  Mindheim. 

Baron,  fin  a  hurry. J  En  passant  man  cher,  t 
could  not  forego  the  pleasure  of  just  calling  for  a 
how  do  you  do — We  see  nothing  of  you  now  at 
court—What  can  be  the  reason  ? — To  be  sure, 
you  are  going  to  night  to  see  the  grand  Opera  of 
Dido — Oh  !  there  will  be  such  magnificent  scene- 
ry— spectacle  a  ravir,  mon  ami. 

President.  No,  no, Baron,  I  have  scenes  enow  in 
my  own  house  to  take  up  my  attention — You  come 
very  apropos;  for  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
some  matters,  which  if  they  fall  out  as  I  appre- 
hend, must  inevitably  ruin  both  you  and  me  for- 
ever. 

i  Baron.  Bon  Dieu.-— What  is  all  this  ? — Tell  me 
quickly. 

President.  As  I  said  before,  ruin  both  you  and 
me  forever. — In  a  word,  then,  you  know  my  pro- 
ject in  regard  to  Ferdinand  and  Lady  Milford—. 
You  know  too,  after  what  has  passed,  of  what  im- 
portance it  is  to  us,  that  this  connection  should 
take  place — But  I  see  no  probability  of  it ;  for 
the  Major  flies  off. 

Baron,  flies  off? — What  ! — Change  his  mind  ? 
Que  diable  I — I  have  mentioned  it  to  the  whole 
court — No  one  talks  of  any  thing  else. 

.  President.  Yes — and  for  ought  I  know,  you 
will  have  to  pass  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  court 
for  a  notorious  liar. — He  is  in  love  with  some  one 
else. 

Baron.  Ah  I  vous  badinez — In  love  with  ano- 
ther 1 — What  does  that  signify  ? 

President.  Signify  I  Not  a  straw,  I  know  that 
very  well  ;  but  with  Ferdinand  it  is  an  insur- 
mountable bar. 

Baron.  Is  it  possible  ? — Mepriser  sa  fortune  de 
telle  maniere  /—Not  have  Lady  Milford  ? 


4S 


CASAL   AND  LOVE. 


President*  Only  ask  him  the  question  ;  and 
you  will  hear  what  he  has  to  say  ? 

Baron.    Parbleu  ! — What  can  he  have  to  say  ? 

Ptesident.  Mindheim,  we  must  take  care  of 
ourselves — Ferdinand  threatens  to  discover  the 
iniquitous  means,  by  which  we  have  got  advan- 
ced ; — and  to  reveal  the  several  forgeries  of 
which  we  have  been  guilty. — In  short,  I  do  not 
know  what  will  become  of  us,  if  you  don't  help 
us  out. 

Baron.    Diantre  J — What  !  betray  us  !  Nous 

livrer  dans  les  mains  de  la  justice? — Oh  ?  what  can 
I  do  to  avert  this  blow  ? — Mais  dites  mon  cher. 

President.  And  I  forgot  to  tell  you  another 
piece  of  news  ;  and  that  is,  that  the  young 
French  favourite,  Monsieur  de  Monville  has  it 
in  contemplation,  to  pay  his  addresses  to  her  La- 
dyship— You  know  he  is  liked  at  court  ; — There 
can  be  no  doubt  of  his  success — Then  he  will  look 
prettily  over  our  heads. 

Baron.  Vous  m'enragez — Monville  ? — What  ?— . 
My  mortal  foe  ? 

President.  ( Hardly  able  to  conceal  his  pleasure 
at  hearing  this. )    Whose  mortal  foe  I 

Baron.  Did  you  never  hear  of  that  damned 
trick  he  played  me  the  other  night  at  the  Opera  ? 
We  are  at  this  time  absolutely  at  drawn  daggers. 
Monville  marry  Lady  Milford  ? — Sacre  ! 

President.  I  never  heard  of  this  affair  before— 
But  we'll  speak  more  about  it  another  time. 

Baron.  A  French  petit  maitre,  who  came  here 
from  Paris  pas  un  Louis  d'or  dans  la  pccfie — to  be 
advanced  to  such  a  rank — ^iie  le  citable  Vemporte  \ 

President.  Well,  Mindheim,  this  is  the  man, 
that  is  to  marry  Lady  Milford  ;  and  who  is  to  be 
the  first  person  at  court. 

Baron.  Mon  cher  President — This  will  indeed 
be  my  coup  de  grace  ; — But,  don't  you  know  an? 


-Act  III. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 
% 


49 


ineans,  whereby  we  might  prevent  this  impend- 
ing storm  ? — Be  it  ever  so  difficult,  we  will  attempt 
it — Grand  Dieu  ! — What  would  I  not  do  de  chagriner 
te  coquin  de  Monville  ? 

>  President.  I  know  but  one  thing  ;  and  that  rests 
with  you. 

Baron.  {Rejoiced)  With  me  ! — mille  graces — Do 
but  name  it. 

President.  To  create  a  breach  between  Ferdi- 
nand and  his  girl. 

Baron.    I  create  a  breach  ? — But  how  ? 

President.  If  once  by  any  ways  or  means,  wc 
be  able  to  create  in  Ferdinand's  mind  a  suspicion 
of  the  girl's  fidelity,  success  is  at  hand. 

Baron.  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  elope  with 
her? 

President.  No,  no — something*  deeper  than  all 
that — No  such  shallow  plans — He  might  then 
suppose,  that  she  v\  as  carried  oft'  by  force, — No, 
Baron,  we  must  manage  so,  that  conviction  of 
her  falsehood  must  even  stare  him  in  the  face  ; 
and  he  must  be  sure  of  having  a  rival — and  you 
are  to  be  this  rival. 

Baron.    De  tout  mon  ceeur-She  is  of  good  fami- 
ly and  rank,  I  take  for  granted. 
'  President,    Indeed  she  is  not — but  what  is  that 
to  the  purpose  ? — She  is  the  daughter  of  Miller 
the  music  master. 

Baron.      Comment  .'——Burgeoise  !*  Oh  I  that 

will  never  do  for  me — mon  cher  President,  Con- 
sider a  man  of  my  consequence  and  reputation  at 
court. 

President.  (Very  cool.)  Well,  well,  Baron, 
just  as  you  please  for  that — To  me  it  is  a  matter 
of  little  importance — I  congratulate  Monville  on 
his  good  fortune  in  being  likely  to  be  made  prime 
minister — I  shall  instantly  resign  all  my  employ- 
ments, and  leave  the  court. 
(vol.  ii.)  A  a 


5q-  cabal  and  loyk.  Act  III. 

Baron.  Et  moi  mon  chcr,  what  is  to  become  of 
me  ?  You  may  well  talk  thus — having  been 
brought  up  to  the  bar,  you  can  help  yourself  any 
where  ;  but,  as  for  me,  que  /aire  ! — §hte  devenir  ! 

President.  I  cannot  help  that — You  will  not  do 
-as  I  would  have  you. 

Baron.  Mais  out — any  thing — tell  me  only 
what  I  should  do. 

President.  Will  you  consent  to  give  your 
name  for  a  rendezvous — I  mean,  will  you  suffer 
a  supposed  letter  to  be  directed  to  you  by  this 
Louisa  Miller's  own  hand  ? 

Baron.    I  will. 

President.  And  will  you  so  manage  as  to  throw 
it  into  Ferdinand's  way,  that  he  may  find  it ; 
and,  seeing  that  it  comes  from  her,  think  him- 
self deceived  ? 

Baron.  Par  example — I'll  call  on  him  some  time 
to  morrow,  and  so  pull  it  out  of  my  pocket  as  par 
hazard  with  my  handkerchief ;  and  yet  not  seem 
to  know  it. 

President.  And,  if  requisite,  will  you  play  your 
part  of  the  lover  as  you  ought  to  do  ? 

Baron.  To  be  sure  I  will — Je  suis  au  fak  de 
tout  ce  qui  regade  V amour. 

President.  Well,  then,  all  will  do  ;  and  we  arc 
friends  again — To  night  you  will  call  for  the  letter 
— You  know  the  rest,  Mindheim. 

Baron.  {Taking  out  a  card)  I  have  now  just  a 
dozen  visits  to  make  de  la  derniere  importance.*— 
Celles  faites,  je  ne  manquerai  pas  de  me  rendre  ici  sur 
le  champ.  (Exit, 

President.  (Calling  after  him)  I  depend  upon 
your  exactness  Baron. 

Baron,  (returning,  he  replies  with  an  air  of  self- 
HGiiceit)  Mais  •dqus  me  connoissez  mon  cher  President. 

(Exit 


Act  III. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


5t 


Scene  III. — President  and  Worm. 

Worm.  Miller  and  his  wife  are  secured — Nov 
will  it  please  your  Excellency  just  to  read  over 
this  letter,  that  I  have  drawn  up  ? 

President.  ( Having  read  it  J  Charming  ! — In- 
comparable ! — Worm— it  will  do  vastly  well — have 
at  last  got  the  Baron  to  come  into  our  plans;  but, 
not  without  a  great  deal  of  difficulty — Well,  now, 
Worm,  you  know  what  you  have  to  do-— Fly  im- 
mediately to  Louisa';  and  if  you  manage  matters 
there,  as  you  expect;  I  say,  that  you  are  a  much 
cleaverer  fellow,  than  I  took  you  for. 

C Exeunt  on  several  sides. ' 

Scene  IV. — A  Room  in  Miller's  House.  }  . 
The  Scene  discovers  Ferdinand  and  Louisa.**" 

Louisa.  Cease,  dearest  Ferdinand  ? — My  mind 
is  cast  in  sorrow's  gloomy' mould  ;  and  now  I  can- 
not even  think  of  things,  which  were  wont  to  raiss 
my  heart,  however  sad ;  and  delighted  my  very- 
soul  beyond  all  power  of  speech : — Yes,  Ferdinand, 
thou  wert  indeed  once  my  darling  theme.  When, 
night's  soft  slumbers  composed  my  mind,  tliou 
wert  the  subject  of  my  happy  dreams : — The  morn- 
ing gave  me  fresh  delight ;  and  all  the  live  long 
day  was  joy  and  bliss  : — But,  now  the  sence  i* 
changed — far  other  objects  must  engage  my  heart ; 
and  other  duties  must  engross  my  mind — I  do  not 
so  much  as  think  of  happy  days  again — All  my 
hopes  are  sunk. 

Ferdinand.  And  mine  are  raised.  My  father  is 
highly  irritated,  and  will  do  his  utmost  to  thwart 
us.  But,  hear,  Louisa — a  thought,  just  now,  vast 
and  immense  as  my  own  boundless  passion,  crowds 

on  my  troubled  mind.  Thou  Louisa,  I  and  love 

—Is  not  all  Heaven  contained  

Louisa.  {Stopping  him)  I  shudder  at  thy  thought 
I  see  where  it  extends, 


52  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  Act  III, 

Ferdinand*  Why  so,  my  lovely  girl  ?  What  is 
the  world  to  us? — Its  views  were  never  suited  to 
our  minds— Why  seek  its  cold  approval  ? — Why 
court  its  favour,  or  why  beg  its  smiles? — Rather, 
with  hearts  elate,  and  dignified  souls,  let  us  look 
down  with  pity  on  their  confined  schemes  ;  and 
soar  above  them  with  becoming  pride,  into  the 
realms  of  rectitude  and  justice  ;  conscious,  that  all 
our  actions  proceed  from  virtue  and  irrefragable 
truths  ;  surpassing  far  their  bounded  notions  and 
their  shallow  views — {with  the  utmost  tenderness) 
Will  not  our  affection  increase  with  our  increasing 
years  ? — Will  not  that  heavenly  eye  as  softly  glis- 
'  ten,  and  as  sweetly  rove,  whether  we  traverse  rocks 
and  burning  sands  ;  or  cross  the  Rhine  or  Elbe,  or 
flv'n  the  Baltic  Sea? — That  country's  mine  where 
my  Louisa's  blest ;  where  she  can  return  my  pas- 
sion without  fear  ;  where  no  controul  shall  mar 
our  promised  joy  ;  where  no  parent's  frown  shall 
check  each  gladdened  scene  ;  but  both  our  bosoms 
heave  with  mutual  bliss. 

Louisa.  My  faithful  Ferdinand,  think  of  this 
plan  no  more — It  can  never  be — I  have  other  du- 
ties to  fulfil.  Let  not  that  voice,  to  which  I  have 
ever  listened  with  delight,  now  breathe  a  thought, 
to  sanction  disobedience. 

Ferdinand.  Whither  we  wander,  wheresoe'er 
we  go,  Heaven  will  protect  us  in  the  hour  of 
need — With  minds  awake  to  our  Creator's  praise  ; 
With  hearts  uplifted  to  His  glorious  throne,  to- 
gether will  we  tread  the  walk  of  life  : — Whither- 
soe'er  we  bend  our  lonely  steps,  a  sun  will  rise 
to  cheer  the  morning's  dawn  ;  a  sun  will  set  to 
gild  the  evening's  calm,  and  settle  comfort  in  our 
happy  breasts  \  and,  should  it  please  high  Heav- 
en's Almighty  hand,  to  snatch  us  from  this  orbit 
jaere  below,  shall  we  not  meet  in  purer  realms 
above,  where  time  no  limit  knows,  nor  bliss  alloy  ; 
where  the  fond  tear  of  parting  is  not  felt  ;  nor 


Act  III. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


53 


dire  misfortune's  pang  is  ever  known  ? — (Seeing 
Louisa  in  tears.)  Divine  Louisa  !  Why  those 
tears? — I  have  but  told  thee  what  our  fate  might 
be,  if  thou  wouldst  not  refuse  admitance  to  these 
rays  of  perfect  bliss. 

Louisa.    Hast  thou  no  other  duty  to  fulfil  ? 

Ferdinand*  Thy  repose  and  peace  are  my  very 
first  ? 

Louisa.  ( Earnestly. )  Then  thou  must  leave 
me— -I  have  a  fat  hex,  who  is  wrapped  up  in  me, 
his  only  child — To-morrow  he  will  be  sixty  years 
of  age — Should  I  leave  the  poor  old  man  a  victim 
to  the  President's  rage  ;  and  rob  him  of  his  only 
joy  on  earth  ?  It  will  not  bear  the  thought— 
My  Faulkener,  thou  wouldest  not  have  me  ? 

Ferdinand.  Oh  !  let  thy  apprehension  cease- 
He  shall  not  be  left  a  victim  to  my  father's  rage- 
Louisa,  I  have  friends,  to  whom  I  could  confide 
my  life — they  shall  watch  o'er  thy  father's  safety  ; 
and  under  their  protection  he  shall  be  secure  a- 
gainst  every  possible  injury  or  atfront. — At  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning  a  chaise  shall  stop  upon 
the  plain,  and  thou,  my  love,  wilt  mark  th« 
time  : — Then,  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  father, 
mother,  all  are  hushed  to  rest,  then,  Louisa, 
wake  for  me  ! — That  moment  we  will  fly. 

Louisa.  Yes  ;  with  thy  father's  curse  attending 
us — with  our  own  conscience,  stern  reproach- 
two  dreadful  curses,  Ferdinand,  which  will  pur- 
sue us  in  our  every  step  ;  and  serve  to  alienate 
our  boasted  bliss  : — Though  my  heart's  fondest 
wish  would  then  be  sealed,  through  life  to  press 
thee  to  my  doating  breast — Though  the  world's 
giddy  joy  I  should  despise,  possessing  thee,  sole 
spring  of  all  my  hopes  ;  yet,  my  beloved,  if  this 
can  never  be,  without  incurring  my  dear  father's 
wrath  and  anger — If  these  brigat  scenes  of  joy  can 
ne'er  be  tasted,  save  by  the  breach  of  every  filial 
a  a  2 


34  CABAL   AND   LOT £•  Act  III, 

tie  ;  then  must  I  an  arduous  task  perform,  and 
try  to  sum  up  all  my  power  and  strength,  to  bear 
the  loss  of  all  I  have  on  earth. 

Ferdinand,  (With  great  emotion.)  And  wilt 
thou — canst  thou  thus  coolly  give  me  up  a  prey 
to  misery  ? — Canst  thou  thus  plunge  the  dagger 
to  my  heart ;  then,  bid  me  live  ? — Oh  1  thy  regard 
for  me  is  cool  indeed. 

Louisa.  That  to  thy  Louisa,  Ferdinand !— • 
( Pointing  to  her  heart.)  Is  it  not  sufficiently  torn 
here  without  inflicting  any  additional  wounds?— 
Oh  !  look  but  kinder  ;  nor  bite  thy  nether  lip,  at 
if  thou  wert  in  wrath  ;  for  I  am  but  ill  prepared 
to  hear  thy  frowns,  whilst  my  heart  bleeds  at 
what  is  now  to  pass. — We  are  now  to  part — I  am 
cow  about  to  lose  thee  ? — for  ever  too — ( Ferdi- 
nand looks  wild.)  Forever  to  separate  those 
bonds  of  amity  and  love,  which  have  so  long  sus- 
tained me  in  the  hour  of  woe  !  'tis  too  much- 
enough  to  turn  my  very  brain. 

Ferdinand.  ( His  looks  become  more  and  more 
uneasy,  till  they  denote  a  violent  agitation  of  mind.) 

Louisa.  I  alone  am  culpable — my  giddy  mind 
flattered  itself  with  hopes  by  far  too  rash  and  too 
presumptious — But  my  misery  is  my  punish- 
ment.— Ferdinand,  let  me  by  my  example  animate 
thy  drooping  and  departing  courage.  Let  me  re- 
store to  a  father  his  long  lost  child  j  and  forget 
an  alliance,  which  the  vast  disparity  of  our  situa- 
tions in  life  obliges  me  ever  to  renounce — Oh  * 
look  not  so,  my  beloved ;  believe  me,  mine  is  a 
harder  task  than  thine. 

Ferdinand.  Peace,  peace,  my  love  ! — My  mind 
is  on  the  rack — every  pulse  seems  to  cease  to 
beat :  being  in  me  is  as  it  were  suspended.  (Fa/- 
iing  against  the  scene.) 

Louisa.  Falling  on  his  bosom. )  But  be  advised— 
Thy  rebellious  bosom  will  soon  be  calm— This  i» 


Act  IIL 


CABAL  AND  LOVE, 


55 


an  hour  that  demands  thy  being  collected. — Ferdi- 
nand it  is  our  parting  hour  {Weeping)  Thou  hast 
a  heart — I  know  it — Give  it  to  a  better  and  to  a 
more  deserving  person — Whoever  possesses  it, 
will  not  envy  the  happiest  of  her  sex  : — Me  shalt 
thou  see  no  more — The  lost  Louisa  shall  consume 
her  life  in  sorrow  and  in  tears— Think  no  more  of 
her — Ferdinand,  what  are  now  my  prospects  of 
futurity  ? — Think'st  thou  not  I  shall  now  and  then 
dwell  on  the  fading  picture  of  past  scenes  ?— -Yes, 
my  beloved,  the  thought  of  past  days  will  con- 
stitute my  soul  delight — And  ere  we  part,  accept 
this  sacred  vow  from  thy  Louisa's  lips,  that  she 
never  will  be  another's  bride,  since  fate  denies 
her  to  be  thine.    (Bursts  out  of  the  room.) 

Ferdinand.  (With  agitation  falling  on  his  knee.) 
Divine  Louisa  I — Another  word  ! 

Louisa.  (Returning.)  'Tis  true-— this  is  your 
due  ( She  falls  upon  his  neck  and  embraces  him ) 
This  and  no  more,  Faulkener  !  dearest  Faulkener, 
a  long  farewell  \  (Is  going,  but  under  the  sudden 
impulse  of  tenderness  she  rushes  once  more  into  his 
arms)  and  clasps  him  with  warmth.  J  Eternal  Pro- 
vidence protect  thy  ways  1  ( is  going.) 

Ferdinand.  (In  the  accents  of  despair)  Louisa, 
stay  i  In  the  name  of  the  All-wise,  I  do  implore 
thee,  stay  !— We  cannot,  must  not  part — Thy 
father  shall  go  with  us  ;  and  we  will  all  fly  toge- 
ther— Oh  1  think  of  this,  Louisa  To-morrow, 

early  I'll  be  here  to  learn  thy  last  resolves — But, 
remember  what  thy  sentence  bears — Thy  Ferdi- 
nand's fate  is  now  suspended  by  thy  decree — . 
Thou  either  bringst  him  life  j  or  worse  than 
death.  (Exit  hastily. 

Scene  V. — Louisa  alone.  (Sitting  down.) 

Louisa.  (Looking  after  him  with  affection)  Oh 
Faulkener  I  Faulkener  1  What  a  heart  is  thine  i— 


55 


CABAL  A\TD  LOVE. 


Act  IL 


Warm  as  life  is  thy  love  ; — (pause )  Oh,  Hea- 
vens !  if  I  look  forward,  what  a  dreadful  view  !  

'Tis  now  I  feel  with  innate  force,  the  hardest 
and  severest  lot,  that  can  befall  the  human  race — 
To  live  in  the  world  with  a  susceptible  heart,  and 
yet  not  dare  to  feel — The  fate  is  hard,  beyond 

conception  hard  'Tis  this,  that  swells  the  note 

of  woe — 'Tis  this,  that  wakes  keen  agony's 
nerve,  But,  where  can  my  father  stay  so  long  ? 
He  promised  me  to  return  within  the  space  of 
half  an  hour  ;  and  yet  five  tedious  hours  are  since 
elapsed.  Should  any  accident  have  prevented  his 
return — Why  am  I  so  alarmed  ?  (Enter  Worm 
unptrceived )  'Tis  only  the  eflecl  of  my  agitated 
mind. 

Scene  VI. — Louisa  and  Worm. 

Worm,    Good  evening,  Miss  Miller. 

Louisa,  Heavens  !  what  voice  was  that  ?— . 
{perceiving  Worm,  she  starts  back  with  surprise)  If 
you  are  looking  for  the  President,  sir,  he  has  been 
gone  many  hours  ago. 

Worm.  No,  Miss,  I  am  looking  for  you. 

Louisa.  For  me  ?  Pray  what  is  at  your 
service  ? 

Worm.    I  am  sent  to  you  by  your  father. 

Louisa.  ( Alarmed. J  By  my  father  1— Where 
is  my  father  ? 

Worm.    Where  he  does  not  wish  to  be. 

Louisa.  For  God's  sake,  tell  me  quickly  where 
he  is,  and  ease  my  tortured  mind. 

Worm.    In  prison  then,  if  you  must  know. 

Louisa.     Looking  towards    Heaven.)  Mighty 

God  ? — And  was  there  need  of  this  too?  But 

•why  in  prison  ? 

Worm.    By  order  of  the  Prince,  for  disrespect 
towards  his  minister. 

Louisa.    By  order  of  the  Prince  for  disrespect 


Act  III. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


17 


?  towards  his  minister  ? — Have  you  heard  aught  of 
Ferdinand  too  ? 

Worm.    He  is  to  choose  Lady  Milford,  or  his 
father's  irrevocable  curse. 
Louisa.    Dreadful  alternative  ! — My  father  in 
|  prison — the  beloved  of  my  heart  forced  to  choose 
I  Lady  Milford  or  his  father's  irrevocable  curse 
I?  ( sighing  deeply)  And  where  is  my  mother,  sir  ? 
Worm.    In  prison  too. 

Louisa     {With    anguish)  Good  Heavens  !  To 
I  the  very  dregs  must  I  then  sip  the  cup  of  bitter- 
I  ness  ? — Eternal  Powers  ! — Sustain    my  feeble 
I  frame — My    fate  is  now  complete — Now  I  am 
[  exempt  from  each  attractive  tie  on  earth — ( a  long 
pause)  Have  you  any  more  tidings  to  communi- 
cate ? — You  may  speak  freely  ;  for,  now  lean 
hear  any  thing  you  have  to  say — 

Worm.  What  is  past  you  know — (With  ama- 
t  licious  smile.) 

Louisa.  Therefore  not  what  is  still  to  come— 
|j  {looking  at  Worm  with  great  contempt)  Poor 
wretch  ! — what  a  miserable  trade  is  yours  ! — It 
can  never  answer  your  purpose — To  make  a  fel- 
low creature  wretched,  is  terrible  enough  ;  but, 
<  with  a  hardened  face  ;  nay  with  a  pleasure  too, 
to  communicate  the  tale  of  grief — this  is  horrible 
indeed — In  the  very  ear  of  the  unfortunate  to 
sound  the  hideous  note  of  woe ;  and  smile  at 
misery's  shriek — to  see  the  human  heart  torn 
with  restless  fury,  and  bleeding  in  it's  tenderest 
parts  ;  and  yet  applaud  the  pang  1 — Oh  Nature  ! 
Nature  ! — art  thou  indeed  so  base  ? — Have  I 
heard  all  ? 

Worm.    Ask  me  no  more  questions. 
Louisa.    Creature  of  malice  ! — were  you  not 
brought  up  in  the  school  of  cruelty  ? — Else,  where 
did  you  learn  thus  dextrously  to  wield  the  weapon 
of  destruction  ?— First  with  the  tyger's  stern  fero- 


53 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  IL 


cious  eye  to  view  the  destined  prey  in  all  its  parts  ; 
and,  having  found  the  weakest,  there  aim  the 
deadly  blow — Oh  Heavenly  Powers  1 — that  man 
can  thus  so  far  descend  to  copy  the  brute  creati- 
on's arts  ! — Now  tell  me  all  ;  for  in  that  dark 
and  plotting  face  I  see  you  still  have  something 
in  reserve — Pronounce  it  straight — what  fate 
awaits  my  father  ? 

Worm,    A  criminal  process. 

Louisa.  A  criminal  process  !— a  little  more 
explicit  if  you  please. 

Worm.    He  must  be  tried  for  life  or  death. 

'Louisa.  Thanks,  sir,  for  this  intelligence— 
(running  into  an  adjoining  room) 

Worm.  C Bather  alarmed)  What  can  she  pur- 
pose ? — She  surely  cannot  think  of — I'll  follow 
her — I  must  take  care,  that  she  does  not  lay  vio- 
lent hands  upon   her  life  (following  Louisa^ 

nvho  just  enters  with  a  cloak  under  her  arm.) 

Louisa.  You  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Secretary 
but  I  always  lock  these  doors  after  me. 

Worm.    And  where  are  you  going,  Miss  Miller f 

Louisa.   To  his  Highness  this  moment  (going.) 

Worm.    Where? — When?  (confused.) 

Louisa.  To  his  Highness  the  Prince,  I  tell 
you — To  that  same  Prince  who  will  try  my  father 

for  life  or  death.  No — not  will,  but  must— 

because  one  or  two  villainous  wretches  choose, 
in  order  to  serve  their  own  infamous  purposes, 
to  blast  the  brow  of  innocence  with  criminal 
fraud  and  guilt. 

Worm.  Forcing  a  laugh )  To  the  Prince  ? — Ha  1 
ha  1  ha  ! — Well  i  that  is  not  a  bad  joke. 

Louisa.  Think  you  then,  most  fraudulent 
wretch,  I  do  not  understand  your  laugh  ? — Yes  I 
know  it  well — but  hear — I  want  no  pity  from  his 
Highness'  hands. — Princes  I  have  been  told,  whose 
wishes  at  all  times  are  fulfilled  as  soon  as  know% 


Act  III*  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  59 

are  ignorant  what  misery  is — therefore  I'll  haste 
to  the  Prince  this  moment, — I'll  paint  the  subject 
in  its  most  bold  and  glaring  colours  ;  and  in  his 
ear  I'll  shriek  what  misery  is — Despair's  ull-he- 
dious  sounds  shall  re-echo  through  his  heart— 
The  voice  of  wretchedness  shall  pierce  his  frame, 
and  penetrate  his  very  soul — and  if  he  start  not 
at  the  glowing  tale  ;  and  if  his  hair  should  not 
yet  stand  an  end,  I'll  tell  him  still  another  truth, 
that  there  will  be  a  period,  when  time  shall  have 
[  unplumed  the  pageantry  of  grandeur,  and  with- 
ered the  arm  of  power — that,  in  the  hour  of 
death,  which  soon  or  late  must  once  arrive,  the 
lungs  even  of  Princes  will  begin  to  fail  them,  to 
gasp  and  pant  for  vent ;  that,  under  ground  pre- 
\  cedency's  a  jest— there  prince,  monarch,  beg- 
gar, side  by  side  consume.  {Going.  J 

Worm.  {Maliciously  friendly.)  Oh  go  by  all 
means — I  advise  you  to  it  ;  for  I  give  you  my 
word,  that  his  Highness  will  comply. 

Louisa.  What  is  that  you  say?  {Returning) 
What  shall  I  do  ? — I  surely  ought  not  to  go,  since 
this  wretch  advises  me  to  it — (To  Worm)  How 
do  know  that  the  Prince  will  comply  ? 

Worm.  Oh  1  You  wont  find  his  compliance  to 
be  altogether  gratis. 

Louisa.  What  price  think  you  that  he  will  fix 
upon  his  kindness  ? 

Worm.  {Significantly.)  The  fair  supplicant 
herself  will  be  the  price  sufficient. 

Louisa.  (Understanding  his  meaning. )  Most 
righteous  God  1 — Oh  ye  poor  great ! — How  are 
ye  encompassed  and  hemmed  in  by  your  crimes 
and  vices  ! — The  light  of  truth  shines  not  to  your 
debased  minds  : — May  Heaven  assist  you  father  J 
your  Louisa  has  always  considered  what  she  owes 
you : — She  would  willingly  give  up  her  life  for 
you,  but  not  her  virtue. 


60 


CABAL  AUD  LOVE. 


Act 


Worm*    His  last  words  to  me  were  these 
u  My  Louisa  has  pulled  me  down  to  the  groun 
my  Louisa  will  stretch  forth  her  hand  of  comfo 
and  help  me  up  again." — I  must  go,  Miss,  to 
him  know  your  answer.  (As  if  goi7ig.) 

Louisa.    Oh  !  stay — a  moment  longer  stay 
M  I  pulled  him  down  to  the  ground  ;  and  'tis 
that  must  help  him  up  again" — Great  God 
What  can  I  do  ?  (  To  Worm  with  an  imploring  vote 
Oh  speak! — Say  1- -What  can  I — what  must 
do  ? 

Worm.    I  know  but  of  one  thing. 

Louisa.    And  what  is  that  ? 

Worm.    What  your  father  wishes  too. 

Louisa.    What  my    father  wishes  too — O 
quickly  name  it. 

Worm.    To  set  the  Major  free. 

Louisa.  Of  his  love  do  you  mean  ? — Is  this 
time  for  jest  ? — Is  it  for  me  to  root  out  passion 
from  the  Major's  heart,  or  change  his  mould  of 
mind  ?  * 

Worm.  Miss,  that  is  not  what  is  meant — The 
Major  must  of  his  own  accord  forsake  you. 

Louisa.  That  he  will  never  do — As  soon  may 
you  with  one  shake  stir  yon  temple's  rocky  base. 

Worm.  That  we  will  try — only  please  to  sit 
down. 

Louisa.    Wretch,  what  are  you  hatching  now  ? 

Worm.  Only  set  down  at  this  table — Here  are 
pen,  ink,  and  paper. 

Louisa.  ( Sitting  donvn  in  the  utmost  perturba~ 
tion  of  mind. J  What  shall  I  write  ? — To  what 
purpose  ? 

Worm.    To  redeem  your  father's  life. 
Louisa.    Serpent  !  you  know  how  to  writhe  and 
wind  yourself  about  the  heart. 

Worm.    (Dictating  the  letter. J  Sir-— 
Louisa,    (Writes  trembling.) 


Act  III.  CABAL  AND  L-OV  61 

p§  y  # 

Worm.    "  What  an  age,  my  beloved,  does  it 
appear  to  me  to  be,  since  last  we  fondly  met." 
Louisa.    ( Starting  up  and  laying  donvn  the  pen. ) 
{  To  whom  is  this  letter  written  ? 

Worm.    To  the  decider  of  your  father's  fate. 
Louisa.    (Sighing  deeply.)    From  his  decision 
lies  there  no  appeal  ? 

I  Worm.    None — "  But  be   careful    when  you 
i  come  again  ;  for  the  Major  watches  me  all  the 
day  long  with  jealous  eyes" — 

Louisa.    ( Hastily  rising. )    A  mere  knavish 
I  trick,  hitherto  unparalleled. — What  purpose  is 
this  letter  to  answer  ? 
.  Worm.    To  redeem  your  father's  life. 

Louisa.  (Wringing  her  hands. J  Merciful  Fa- 
ther 1 — Had  it  but  pleased  thee  to  render  my  fate 
less  hard  1 — Why  am  I  thus  grieviously  oppress- 
ed ? — Why  tossed  to  and  fro  betwixt  the  dread- 
ful gulfs  of  horror  and  despair? — And,  above  all, 
subject  to  this  bloody-minded  devil's  cursed  arts  ? 
My  mind  will  soon  become  so  desperate  ;  as  not 
to  care  what  dire  futurity  dares  to  menace  or  por- 
tend— (To  Worm.)  Do  what  you  willy— I'll  not 
write  another  word. 

Worm.  Very  well,  Miss^-that  must  be  as  you 
please — (  Takes  his  hat. ) 

Louisa.  As  I  please  do  you  say  ?— -Barbarian  ! 
hear — What  !-— lead  a  wretch  forlorn  up  to  the 
mount's  stupendous  height;  and,  having  hur- 
led him  down  the  fatal  precipice  beneath,  you 
call  out  to  him  to  help  himself  as  he  can  ? — Ob- 
durate man  ! — Too  well  you  know,  that  the 
heart  by  nature's  bent  and  instinct,  is  more  close- 
ly tied,  than  by  the  strongest  iron  links — Go  on— * 
I'll  write  what  you  will — it  is  now  alike  to  me 
— I  have  done  thinking — -( Sits  down  again  to 
write.) 


(vol.  II.) 


<te  CABAL  AND  LOVE*  4&^i' 


Worm*    "  Watches  me  all  the  day  long  with 

jealous  eyes." — Have  you  gotten  that  * 

Louisa,    Yes,  yes, — Go  on — Go  on 

Worm*  "  Yesterday  the  President  cams  here— * 
It  was  really  a  good  joke  to  see,  how  honest  the 
Major  was  in  defending  my  honour." „ 

Louisa.    Admirable  indeed  ! 

Worm.  "  For  fear  of  bursting  out  into  a  fit  of 
laughter,  I  made  him  believe  that  I  was  going  to 
faint." 

Louisa.    Oh  Heavens  ! 

Worm.  u  But  the  mask  will  soon  become  in< 
supportable — It  must  ere  long  drop  off — All  thi 
I  wish  for,  is,  to  escape  from  him,  and  rush  intc 
your  arms." 

Louisa.  ( Looking  at  him  with  the  height  of  cot 
tempt.)    "  And  rush  into  your  arms." 

Worm,  "  This  to-morrow  I  shall  be  able  to  ef- 
fect ;  provided  you  come  just  as  he  leaves  me,  and 
stop  at  our  usual  place  of  rendezvous — you  know 
where." — Have  you  gotten  u  you  know  where." 

Louisa.  {With  the  deepest  anguish)  Yes,  I  have 
.got  all. 

Worm.  "  And  you  shall  meet — Your  affectionate 

Louisa." 

Louisa.    Now  for  the  dire6tion. 

Worm.    To  Baron  Mindheim. 

Louisa.  Merciful  Father  ! — A  name  as  foreign 
to  rny  ear,  as  are  these  horrid  lines  to  my  heart — ► 
(A  pause,  during  which  she  looks  at  the  letter  with 
an  eye  of  horror )  I  see  the  fatal  fruit  of  this — No 
matter — It  must  be  done — 'Tis  to  save  a  father's 
life  :  And  are  not  a  father's  claims  more  valid  than 
a  lover's  ?  (Greatly  agitated  by  the  conflict  of  duty 
and  passion  J  Was  ever  fate  thus  cruel? — Oh  i  Pow- 
er of  reclitude  ?  quickly  nerve  my  staggering  mind ; 
and  firmly  fix  its  great  resolve  !  ( Another  short 
pause  J  'Tis  over  ! — The  struggle  is  past ! — {Giving 


Act  III. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


&3 


Worm  the  letter  in  a  faint  and  almost  exhausted  voice) 
Here,  sir, — Here  it  is — Here  is  my  innocent  name 
—Here  sir,  take  this  scrawl,  the  grave  oi  Paul- 
kener's  peace,  and  of  all  my  happiness  in  life — (Hav- 
ing given  '0  and  now  I  am  a  beggar. 

Worm.  Do  not  say  sO,  Miss  Miller — Do  not 
despair — I  am  sorry  to  see  your  affliction — Who 
knows  but  that  I  may  be  able  sufficiently  to  apo- 
logize for  certain  actions,  which  at  present  may 
calumniate  me  in  your  eyes ;  but  which  will  soon 
Hrear  a  different  aspect. 

Louisa,    ( Interrupting  him )  Have  we  done,  sir? 

May  the  bird  spread  its  wings  and  fly  ? 
I  Worm.  Not  quite  yet,  Miss — There  is  still  an- 
other small  trifle — You  must  now  come  along  with 
me  ;  and  take  a  solemn  oath,  that  this  letter  was 
not  exacted  from  you  by  force  ;  but  that  it  was 
the  result  of  your  own  free  will  and  pleasure. 

Louisa.  ( Starting  with  horror )  Eternal  Provi- 
dence 1 — Must  I  then  fix  thy  seal,  in  order  to  guard 

and  preserve  the  very  works  of  hell  ?  ( a  pause, 

then  animated )  But,  fiend  accursed,  lead  on  ! — 
and  drag  me  where  you  will — Let  me,  all  trem- 
bling, grasp  the  sacred  writ  ;  and,  with  all  the 
daughter  glowing  in  my  soul,  press  the  bless'd  tran* 
script  to  my  quivering  lips — Regardless,  then,  of 
each  terrestrial  tie,  my  frantic  mind  will  rave  till 
all  be  o'er — Come,  let  me  haste  to  take  this  dread- 
ful oath  ;  and  part  with  every  treasure  I  possess — - 
And,  should  mild  justice,  shocked,  my  arm  ar- 
rest ;  and  bid  me  pause,  ere  I  seal  Faulkener's 
fate  ;  then  shall  my  voice  on  highest  pinions  soar 
—with  the  wild  shriek  of  madness  and  despair,  I'll 

hollow  the  sweet  sounds  of  filial  love  'tis  to  re* 

deem  my  sire,  and  die  content. 

(Exit,    Worm  following* 


END  OF   THE   THIRD  ACT. 


64 


CABAL  AND  LOVE 


Act  n 


ACT  IF. 

Scene  I. — A  Boom  at  the  President's  House, 

On  one  side  Ferdinand  enters  violently  agitate 
with  a  letter  open  in  his  hand;  on  the  other 
Servant. 

Ferdinand.    Has  not  the  Baron  been  here  yet 

Servant.  Sir,  his  Excellency  the  President  is 
just  enquiring  for  you. 

Ferdinand.  Damnation  I  I  ask  you  whether  the 
Baron  has  not  yet  been  here  ? 

Servant.  No,  Sir,  he  has  not — His  Excellency, 
Sir,  is  actually  waiting  for  you. 

Ferdinand.    Tell  him  Pll  come  by  and  by. 

( Exit  Servant. 

Scene  II. — Ferdinand  alone. 

(Running  over  the  letter,  staring  wildly,  and  fu- 
riously agitated.) 

And  can  it  be — can  that  heavenly  frame  con- 
tain such  an  infernal  heart  ? — That  seemingly 
beautious  structure,  that  apparently  angelic  com- 
position to  prove  a  monument  of  fraud  and  de- 
ceit ? — Impossible  !  it  can  never  be — And  yet,  if 
?ngels  descended  from  above,  to  vouch  for  her 
truth,  it  is  her  hand — If  heaven  and  earth  were 
roused  to  bear  witness  to  her  innocence  it  is  her 
hand. — Accursed  guile  ! — This  was  the  reason 
whyjshe  so  obstinately  opposed  ourflight — It  was 
for  this — O  heavens  ! — now  I  awake  ;  and  all  is 
clear — It  was  for  this  that  she  gave  up  all  claim 
to  my  love  with  so  much  heroism  and  fore  - — 
But  thus  to  distract  me  all  at  once  ;  and  plunbe 
me  into  misery's  extreme! — (Thoughtful J  And 
were  all  those  tremors,  those  sudden  agitations 
all  afiecled  ?   (Passionately)    Could  each  warm 


Act  IV. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


65 


fiery  emotion  ; — those  tears  of  tenderness  ; — each 
tumultuous  bosom's  heave  be  forced  ? — Impossi- 
ble ! — I'll  not  believe  it  ; — When  my  heart  by 
warmth  extreme  was  insensibly  pitched  on  love's 
refined  and  sublimest  heights — even  therewe  also 
met  ;  and  to  every  emotion  of  affection  did  not 
her  heart  beat  responsive  to  mine  ? — (Walking  up 
and  down  the  room  in  great  agitation ) — And  this 
was  all  grimace  ! — Then  what  I  thought  the  soft 
heaving  bosom  of  love,  was  but  a  labouring  form, 
wildly  agitated,  to  dupe  my  easy  unsuspe6ting 
mind;  and  to  light  the  flame  of  madness  in  my 
brain  ! — Damnation  ! — (Striking  his  forehead. )  If 
falsehood  and  guile  be  so  specious  and  attractive, 
why  comes  it  to  pass,  that  devils  do  not  force 
their  way  through  Heaven's  blessed  portals  ? — 
With  purity's  own  dignity  did  she  not  ward  off 
my  Father's  insolence  and  affronts  r— And  yet 
culpable  she  was — (pause)  The  hypocrite  could 
even  faint  too— Oh  sensibility  1— what  will  nowbe  thy 
language  ;  and  how  art  thou  to  be  known  or  under- 
stood ? — Innocence  1 — how  wilt  thou  defend  thy- 
self, when  vipers  catch  thy  heavenly  notes  ;  and 
array  themselves  in  thy  white  robes  of  truth  ? — 
Yes,  she  affecled  to  faint  in  these  arms — But  co- 
quettes sometimes  can  faint — Strumpets  too  can 
faint — (m  thought)  She  knew  her  power,  and  used 
it  for  her  purpose  well— When  my  bosom  glowed 
\vith  ecstacy  and  love — when  my  soul  hung  with 
rapture  on  her  charms  ;  and  when,  deluded  fool, 
I  thought  to  clasp  all  Heaven  in  hei  celestial  form, 

Great  God  1 — Did  she  all  the  while  Impossible 

— It  can  never  be — And  when,  buried  in  her  chaste 
embrace,  I  thought  to  revel  in  the  very  bliss  of 
Paradise — when  the  world  vanished  from  my  view ; 
and  when  I  dreamt  of  nought  but  eternity  and  her, 
could  her  heart  be  totally  insensible  to  each  soul 
denoting  mark,  that  my  rapt  mind  bespoke  ?— ~ 
b  b  2 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


<Act  IV. 


Could  she  then  too  think  of  guile  and  damned  de- 
ceit ? — Heavens  ! — In  that  perfect  hour  did  she  no- 
thing feel  ?--Oh  yes!— She  felt  the  triumph  of  her 

arts — she  felt  her  fraud  succeed  !  She  gloried 

in  her  guilt  ! 

Scene  III — Baron  Mindheim  and  Ferdinand 

Baron.    You  were  so  good  as  to  send  me  word 
mon  cher  ami,  that  you  wished  to  speak  to  me. 

Ferdinand.    {Aside)  Yes  to  break  your  bones 

for  you       \to  the  Bdron)  Baron,  you  must  have 
dropt  this  letter  here  this  moning ;  otherwise, 
cannot  conceive,  how  it  could  have  fallen  into  my 
hands  ;  for  I  was  by  chance  the  lucky  finder. 
Baron.   You  ! — (  Appearing  surprised  J  Dear  me 
I  am  astonished. 

Ferdinand.    Pshaw!  Pshaw!  Read  it — Yo 

will  find  it  worth  the  while — (Giving  the  letter  t 
the  Baron,  who  pretends  to  run  it  over  ;  during  whic 
time  Ferdinand  goes  to  a  drawer  for  a  pair  of  pistols. 

Baro-n.  {Seeing  what  Ferdinand  is  about,  he  throw 
the  letter  upon  the  table  ;  and  is  for  taking  to  his  heels. 

Ferdinand.  {Taking  him  by  the  arm)  Not  quite  s 
soon,  my  dear  Baron — Good  news,  in  that  letter 
I  perceive — Remember  there  is  postage  yet  to  pa 
— (Shewing  him  the  pistols  J 

Baron.  ( Frightened  and  stepping  back )  You  hav 
not  lost  your  senses,  Major  ? 

Ferdinand.  No — No — I  have  senses  enow  left 
to  settle  matters  with  you — Here,  sir,  take  one  of 
these  pistols  immediately. 

Baron.    One  of  those  pistols  ?  Are  you  mad, 

Major  ? 

Ferdinand.    Dire&ly  take  one  of  them  ;  or  Pit 
break  your  bones  for  you  this  instant — See  how 
the  cowards  trembles  \—(The  Baron  makes  another 
attempt  to  run  away )  Hold !  a  little  patience 
{Bars  the  door) 

Baron.    But  surely  not  in  a  room. 


Act  IV. 


f  ABAL   AND  LOVE. 


67 


Ferdinand.  Oh — that  matters  not — but  no  dal- 
lying for  me — Present,  I  say. 

Baron.  To  be  sure,  so  hopeful  a  young  man 
will  not  risk  his  precious  life  in  this  manner. — Mon 
cher  Major,  be  advised. 

Ferdinand.  Take  your  aim  this  moment,  scoun- 
drel ;  for  I  have  nothing  more  to  do  in  this  world. 

Baron.  But  I  have  a  great  deal,  my  excellent 
young  man. 

Ferdinand.  You  ?— Blockhead — you  much  to 
do  ? — Caricature  of  ribaldry  and  folly  ? 

Baron.  Any  thing  that  you  like — only  take  those 
pistols  away. 

Ferdinand.  How  the  fellow  stands  shaking  !— 
Would  it  not  be  an  insult  to  the  creation  to  lay 
hands  on  such  a  deplorably  pitiful  wretch  ?— A  ba- 
boon, the  very  refuse  of  our  kind? — Not  one  idea 
to  distinguish  between  right  and  wrong — a  frenchi- 
fied  fop,  brought  hither,  like  the  court  fools  of  old, 
to  amuse  their  sovereign  ;  and  to  give  us  some 
faint  idea  of  the  last  and  most  despicable  order  of 

mankind  ?  And  this  creature  to  possess  her 

heart?— With  this  animal  to  inhabit  the  regions 
of  love  ?  With  this  inse6l,  this  brute,  to  ex- 
change the  language  of  passion? — Oh  Heavens  !— 
Let  me  not  think  on  it— a  being,  who  is  a  shame 
to  our  sex  ;  born,  more  to  alienate,  than  to  create^ 
affection. 

Baron.   Thank  God ! — he  has  lost  his  senses 

C'est  bien  pour  moi  What  would  I  give  to  be 

about  a  hundred  miles  off  ! — any  where  but  not 
with  him. 

Ferdinand.  But,  rascal ! — if  her  honour  be  not 
clear — Scoundrel  !— if  her  purity  be  stained  ; — 
{enraged)  'twere  better  for  you  never  to  have  been 
born  ;  'twere  better  for  you  to  fly  to  Hell's  re- 
motest parts,  than  to  meet  my  awakened  rage — 
{With  the  voice  of  terror)  Wretch  !  how  far  have 
you  prevailed  with  her  ! — Villain  1— confess. 


65 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


Act  IV. 


Baron.    Let  me  but  go  and  I  will  tell  you  all. 

Ferdinand.  This  moment,  rascal  !  or  I  let  go 
(holding  the  pistol  to  his  breast )  Confess,  or  you 
breathe  your  last. 

Baron.    A  moment's  patience,  and  I'll  tell  you 
all— it  is  all  nothing — a  mere  story— You  are  de 
ceived— imposed  upon— -ma  foi. 

Ferdinand.    Wretch  ! — do  you  dare  to  remin 
me  of  that  too  ? — (Going  to  lay  hold  of  him ) 

Baron.    Mon  dieu  ! — if  you  would  but  hear  me 
Your  Father — I  say  your  father. 

Ferdinand.  (Interrupting  him)  My  father?  (so J 
tening  a  little)  My  father? — What  about  my  fa 
ther  ? 

Baron.    You  rave,  mon  cher  Major,  I  never  saw 
her— I  know  nothing  of  her—nothing  in  the  whol 
world. 

Ferdinand.    Never  saw  her?  Know  nothin 

of  her  ?  Away  infamous  liar  1 — (Pushing  him  ou 

of  the  Room)  Louisa's  lost  1 

Scene  IV. — Ferdinand  alone. 

(A  long  silence,  during  which  Ferdinand's  looks  be 
tray  an  extreme  horror  of  mind)  It  must  be  done— 
this  rebellious  heart  calls  aloud  for  retribution 
and  must  have  dire  revenge  ! — Revenge  ? — O 
whom  ? — On  her,  who  was  my  highest  joy,  my 
only  bliss  on  earth  ? — On  her  who  alone  of  all  crea 
tures  living  could  sway  my  mind,  or  charm  my 
soul  to  rest  ? — And  is  it  her  blood,  that  I  must 
seek  ? — Oh  horrid,  horrid  fate  !  (Pause)  And  yet, 
it  must  be  done — Lost,  lost  Louisa  ! — Yes,  unfor- 
tunate one,  thou  art  lost ;  but,  am  I  not  also  lost  ? — 
I  am  indeed — And  if  I  be,  by  Heavens  !  so  art 
thou — Most  righteous  Judge  ! —  she  was  my  all — 
The  world  entire  did  I  for  her  give  up — And  yet — 
O  God  1 — She  has  roused  my  very  soul  ;  and  all 
nature  within  me  loudly  demands  revenge— .But 


Act  VI. 


CASAL  AND  LOVE. 


69 


my  arm  is  weak  and  faint,  and  knows  not  how  to 
lift  the  murderous  weapon — To  sweep  from  earth 
a  flower  so  lovely  and  so  prime — to  cut  her  off  in 
all  her  blooming  days  ;  ere  time's  correcting  hand 
has  formed  her  youth,  and  given  her  feeble  mind 
a  proper  mould  1 — 'Tis  torture,  'tis  death  to  me — 
But,  what ! — Shall  I  then  let  her  live  ? — Shall  I  be 
doomed  to  hear  her  make  a  laugh  of  Faulkener's 
credulous  mind  ;  and  see  her  with  impetuous 
warmth  rush  into  her  paramour's  arms  ? — Dis- 
traction ! — ( Striking  his  forehead )  Oh  I  for  the 
gleaming  dagger's  point  to  hurl  her  to  swift  des- 
truction, and  quickly  to  open  to  her  view  eternity's 
tremendous  scene  ! — ( Starting )  Eternity  ! — dread 
thought  ! — Faulkener  ! — Faulkener  I  that  comes 
home  But,  it  must  be  done,  (is  going  out,  but 
meets  the  President ) 

Scene  V. — President  and  Ferdinand. 

President,  Son  !  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  here  ; 
for  I  have  agreeable  news  to  tell  you — Some- 
thing, which,  I  am  sure,  will  surprise  you. 

Ferdinand.  (Affectionately)  Sir! — My  father — 
( looking  at  him  with  great  emotion  ;  then  falls  on 
his  knee  and  kisses  his  father's  hand.  J  Oh  my  dear 
father  ! 

President.  What  disturbs  you,  Ferdinand  ?— - 
Your  hand  trembles  and  burns. 

Ferdinand.  Oh  Sir ! — can  you  pardon  my  in- 
gratitude towards  you  ? — I  have  abused  your 
kindness,  and  entailed  a  curse  upon  myself — I 
am  indeed  a  miserable  wretch — Your  motives 
were  all  so  affectionate — Your  mind  was  so  pro- 
phetic But,  now  it  is  too  late — Your  pardon, 

sir, — Do  not  reject  an  unhappy  youth  for  his  first 
offence  towards  you— Mine  was  an  error  of  judge- 
ment ;  and  I  know,  sir,  you  are  always  ready  to 
forgive  any,  that  does  not  proceed  from  the  heart. 


70 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


President.    Rise,  my  son  1  do  not  under 

stand  >ou — What  mystery  lurks  beneath  you 
words  ? 

Ferdinand.  (Rising.)  Louisa  Miller,  sir, — Oh 

how  am  I  to  tell  you  all  ?  Your  rage  was  s 

properly  founded — Your  objections  so  solid — s 
fatherly  warm — Oh  sir,  Louisa. 

President.    Ferdinand,  do  not  torture  me  i 

this  manner  (feigning  not  to  understand  him 

I  am  heartily  sorry  for  my  behaviour  towards  her 
but,  I  hope  to  make  amends  for  every  hars 
word  I  uttered — I  am  come  to  conciliate  matters 

and  restore  all  harmony  and  joy  Why  do  yo 

look  so  wild,  my  son,  as  if  the  news  were  u 
welcome  to  you  ? 

Ferdinand.     Conciliate    matters  ?  Heavenl 

Powers  ! — look  with  an  eye  of  pity  down  you 

mercy    here    extend  lest  my  heart-string 

should  crack,  and  reason  leave  her  seat  O 

my  father  j  How  shall  I  tell  you  ?  Thi 

Louisa — 

President.    Is  a  charming  and  a  lovely  girl 
I  recall  every  suspicion,  which  I  too  hastily  har 
boured— She  has  acquired  my  fullest  esteem 
and  I  come  to  give  my  consent  to  your  immediat 
union. 

Ferdinand.  Our  immediate  union  ?  ■  Fathe 
of  Heaven  I  heardst  thou  that  ? — Our  union 
(starting)  Where  ?»— On  the  wheel  of  damna 
tion  ?— -There  amidst  our  groans  and  howls- 
with  my  wild  rolling  eyes  fixed  upon  her  torture 
frame,  twisting  ourselves  into  a  thousand  hideou 
shapes  to  get  from  the  infernal  rack  ? 

President.    (Stopping  him.)    Ferdinand,  wha 

are  you  thinking  of  ?  Does  your  joy  overpower 

you  ?  Believe   me,  I  never    meant    to  deal 

hardly  by  you — Louisa  shall  soon  be  my  daugh 
ter — I  reckon  her  virtue  for  parentage  j  and  he 


Act  IV. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


beauty  for  gold  (Ferdinand's  wild  and  staring 
looks  shew  that  his  mind  teems   with  some  horrid 

purpose )  But,  son,  why  do  you  look  so  wild  ?— 

Your  stare  terrifies  me. — All  my  former  interest- 
ed views  yield  to  my  strong  affection  for  you  ;  and 
we  now  embrace,  as  having  but  one  common 
pursuit  after   happiness.    ( Embracing  Ferdinand, 
Ferdinand,    (  Tearing  himself  from   his  father's 
arms )  It  must  be  done — and  I'll  about  it  straight — 
( turning    to    his  father )    Happiness,    did  you 
name  ? — Oh  that  the  mother  earth  would  swallow 
jpie  ;  and  take  me  to  her  cheering  bosom  ! — for, 
Svhilst  my  pulse  beats,  horror  will  be  in  every 
throb.    ( Brusting  out  of  the  room, 

( President,  ( Alone,)  All  has  operated  to  my 
wishes — he  has  by  this  time  seen  the  letter ;  and 
'is  raving  about  Louisa's  perfidy — Rave  on,  my 
hot  brained  youth — Ere  long  you  will  be  calm 
fagain — He  little  suspects  the  author  of  his  troub- 
les ;  nor  mean  I,  that  he  should — Now  my  pro- 
spects begin  to  brighten  ;  for,  now  I  have  no 
doubt  of  his  accepting  Lady  Milford's  hand  ;  and 
thereby  crowning  my  fondest  wish.  ( Exit, 

Scene.   VI — A  splendid  apartment  at  Lady  Mil- 
ford's 

Enter  Lady  Milford  and  Sophy. 
Lady  Milford,  You  saw  her  then  Sophy  !  Is 
she  coming  ? 

Sophy.    She  is  madam — She   said,   that  she 
would  wait  upon  your  Ladyship  this  moment, 
i    Lady  Milford,    like  a  criminal  do  I  tremble  at 
the  thought  of  seeing  this  happy  one — And  how 
did  she  take  the  message  ? 

Sophy,    At  first  she  seemed  greatly  surprised— < 
looked  at  me  ;  then  was  silent  for  a  minute  ;— 
(  at  length  she  said-  "  My  respecls  to  her  Lady- 
ship, and  I  will  do  myself  the  honour  of  waiting 
on  her  immediately." 


72 


CABAL  AND  LOTE 


Act  IV 


Lady  Milford,  I  am  quite  uneasy — If  I  find  in  her 
nothing  but  what  we  see  in  common,  I  shall  be 
really  vexed — If  I  find  more,  I  shall  be  miserable. 

Sophy,  But,  Madam,  this  is  not  the  disposition 
in  which  a  rival  ought  to  find  you. — -Call  to  mine 
your  birth,    your  rank  your    power — Elevatec 


Lady,  Milford  ( Not  having  minded  her )  Wha 
is  the  fool  chattering  about  ? 

Sophy,  ( Rallying  her )  Then  I  suppose  your 
Ladyship  beinc^  thus  superbly  dressed  to  day,  with 
that  row  of  splendid  jewels  in  your  hair,  is  mere 
chance  and  accident;  and  by  no  means  calculated 
to  impress  this  Miss  Miiler  with  an  idea  of  your 
magnificence,  and  a  sense  of  her  own  inferiority. 


Servant,  A  young  lady,  by  the  name  of  Miller, 
Madam. 

Lady  Milford,    Desire  her  to  walk  up  {Exit 

Servant)  Sophy,  take  yourself  away — (Sophy  seems 
unwilling  to  go )  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ? — I  desire 
yon  would  go  tl  is  moment — {Exit  Sophy)  I  am  glad 
to  fed  myself  thus  agitated  ;  and  yet  I  dont  know 
how  I  shall  be  able  to  bear  her  presence — (She 
throws  herself  on  a  sofa,  which  is  situated  at  the  end 
of  the  room  ;  and  assumes  an  air  of  the  most  forbid- 
ding dignity, ) 

Scene  VII. — Louisa  and  Lady  Milford.  Louisa 

enters  with  the  utmost  diffidence  ;  curtesies  to  Lady 
Milford,  but  remains  at  some  distance  from  her 
—Lady  Milford  is  sitting  on  the  sofa  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room — She  looks  at  Louisa  with 
all  imaginable  hauteur — {a  pause.) 
Louisa.    Madam,  I  wait  upon  you  agreeably  to 

your  Ladyship's  desire. 

Lady  Milford,    {Just  turning  her  head)  Oh  !  

Is  it  you?  Miss  pray  what  is  your  name  ? 

Louisa.    My  name  is  Miller,  Madam  ? 


ideas  will  give  you  towering  looks. 


Enter  Servant. 


Act  IV. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE* 


79 


Lady  Milford.  True — true-?~I  recollect  now  

the  poor  music-master's  daughter,  of  whom  some 
one  was  talking  the  other  day  ■  '{a  pause,  then 
aside)  Very  interesting,  but  yet  no  beauty— — ( to 

Louisa )  Come  nearer  child  1  nearer  yet  To 

be  sure,  you  are  not  afraid  of  me  ? 

f^Lofysa.  Afraid  Madam  ?  -No— Sometimes 

I  despise  the  opinion  of  the  multitude. 

Lady  Milford.  ( Aside )  This  contumacy  she 
has  from  him— {to  Louisa)  Your  name  then  is 
Louisa  Miller. 

*  Louisa.    It  is,  Madam. 

*  vLady  Miiford.  Miss  Louisa,  I  have  been  told, 
that  you  are  exceedingly  accomplished ;  and  that 
you  possess  most  attractive  qualifications  ^-In- 
deed all  the  world  says  so-  and  I  think  all  the 

world  is  very  good  authority. 

r.  Louisa.    I  confess,  Madam,  that  I  know  no 
^persons  who  would  think  of  giving  themselves  the 
•trouble  of  speaking  of  one  so  insignificant  as  Loui- 
sa Miller. 

Lady  Milford.  And  how  old  are  you,  pray,  if  I 
may  ask. 

Louisa.    I  am  eighteen,  Madam* 

Lady  Milford.  {Aside)  Eighteen?  *-the  first 

jmlse  of  passion — — what  so  dangerous  ?  ( to 

Louisa )  Miss  Louisa,  I  find  myself  prepossessed 
•in  your  favour ;  and  I  have  a  mind  to  make  your 

fortune  Sophy  is  going  to  be  married  ;  and  I 

could  wish  you  would  come  and  live  with  me. 

Louisa.  {With  becoming  dignity)  I  am  as  much 
obliged  to  your  Ladyship  for  your  intended  favour, 
as  if  I  accepted  the  same. 

Lady  Milford.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss,  I  did 
not  know  you  were  so  proud- — -I  suppose  you 
think  those  fingers  too  delicate  for  work ;  and  pride 

yourself  upon  that  pretty  face  of  yours  But  be 

advised  child  those  cheeks  are  not  enamelled 

vol.  ii.)  C  c 


74 


CAE  AL  AND  LOVK. 


Act  m 


—What  would  you  say,  if  you  found  your  admirer's 
attention  cease,  as  soon  as  your  charms  and  beau- 
ties began  to  fade  I 

Louisa.  (With  pointed  expression.)  Pity  the  ad- 
mirer, Madam,  who  bought  a  jewel,  because  it 
appeared  to  be  set  in  gold. 

Lady  Milford.  ( Not  seeming  to  have  heard  her.J 
I  think  you  would  have  no  cause  for  repenting  o: 
your  determination,  if  you  accepted  my  offer. 

Louisa.    Pardon  me  .madam,  if  I  presume  tp* 

differ  from  you  The  houses  and  palaces  of  the 

great  are  but  too  often  the  asylums  of  the  most 
unbounded  luxury  and  extravagance— Who  would 
give  the  poor  Louisa  credit  for  launching  all  at 
once  into  the  perilous  contagion,  trembling  at  the 

same  time  at  the  fatal  infection  ?-  Or,  who 

would  suppose,  that  Lady  Milford,  the  enviec 
and  distinguished  Lady  Milford,  so  highly  re- 
nowned for  affluence,  splendour,  and  for  every  < 
thing,  which  can  possibly  contribute  in  appear- 
ance to  the  purest  felicity,  should  with  all  these 
attainments  be  in  reality  destitue  of  that  solid  hap- 
piness, which  falls  to  the  lot  but  of  the  "  pure  in 
heart and  that  her  conscience  should  sometimes 

prove  a  scorpion  in  her  breast  ?  Would  your 

Ladyship,  when  crossed  in  any  plan  or  pursuit 
be  able  to  bear  with  the  placid  air  of  content- 
ment, which  would  beam  from  my  countenance  ? 

 Or,  upon  your  return  from  any  party,  hurt 

or  displeased  by  any  occurrence,  how  could  you 
witness  the  attractive  mien  of  humble  happiness, 
ever  imprinted  on  my  calm  and  unruffled  brow, 
proceeding  from  inward  satisfaction's  smile  ? — 
We  are  all  weak,  when  unsupported  by  our  own 
esteem — there  are  times,  when  the  heart,  con- 
scious of  having  acted  amiss,  dreads  a  scrutiny — 
the  anvil  of  gnawing  conscience  is  never  cool— 
t  he  contemplative  hour  must  sometimes  exist  to  a 
mind  of  your  stamp— the  serpent  reproach  may 


Act  Ifc  CABAL   AND    LOVE*  7,1 

Sometimes  assail  you  with  all  its  venemous  stings  ; 
and  your  whole  bosom  may  be  turned  into  a  scene 
of  perturbation  and  disquietude — Under  the  im- 
pulse of  these  dreadfuj  evils,  your  mind  jjiust  be 
singularly  endowed,  Madam,  to  be  able  to  vieW 
|j,with  indifference  your  attendant  Louisa's  face, 
dressed  in  artless  looks  of  serenity,  unclouded  by 
care,  unchecked  by  disappointment  ;  and  boast- 
ing the  purest  bliss  of  innocence  and  a  heart  at 
peace. 

Lady   Milford,      (Aside)  Intolerable  !  but 

what  is  still  more  intolerable,  is,  that  I  feel  she' 

is  right  (to  Louisa)  I  do  not  understand  you, 

child  Your  objections  to  live  with  me  must  be 

strong  indeed — I  find  that  you  do  not  choose  to 
name  them  ;  but  (with  a  threatening  air)   I  shall 
discover  ali,  and  shall  take  my  just  revenge. 
"^ffifiLouisa.    Madam,  forgive  me  ;  but  I  defy  your 

rage  :—  All  your  wrath,   all  your  anger  will 

prove  unequal  to  subdue  the  mind,  which  consci- 
ence strengthens,  and  which  innocence  protects-— 

Let  the  worst  come  1  am  prepared  for  it  

Let  the  destructive  storm  of  fate  bend  me  even  to 
dejection's  lowest  ebb,  still  I  shall  always  find  a 
shelter,  to  afford  me  that  enviable  store  of  solace, 
which  no  power  can  ever  ravish  from  me — I  mean, 
Madam — the  sanctuary  within  my  own  heart. 

Lady  Milford,  Miss  Louisa,  you  will  be  most 
assuredly  happy,  if  you  would  come  and  live  with 
me* 

Louisa,  In  my  opinion,  Madam,  the  mind 
cannot  be  better  employed  than  in  the  pursuit  af- 
ter happiness  ;  which  grand  end  in  life  being 
once  attained,  our  noblest  efforts  and  views  ought 
to  be  directed  to  maintain  that  blessed  post,  so 
often  sought  for,  and  too  oft  in  vain— The  diffi- 
culty is  achieved  in  the  possession  of  the  object ; 
and,  without  doubt,  it  rests  with  us  to  render  the 


76  CA3AL  ANDT  L0VI2.  Act  It, 

subsequent  scenes  of  life  in  the  highest  degree 
pleasurable  and  happy,  by  keeping  a  constant 
guard  upon  our  actions  and  conduc"l ;  lest  we  de- 
viate from  the  unerring  path  of  rectitude  and 
truth — Happiness,  Madam,  I  hold  not  to  be  a 
whim— It  is  a  jewel  of  that  inestimable  value,  as 
to  be  worthy  of  our  utmost  assiduity  and  om 
most  strenuous  exertions. 

Lady  Milford.  (Aside.)  Faulkener  !  no  wond- 
er thou  art  caught,  if  even  I  am  fascinated — (To 
Louisa.)  But,  surely  child,  you  would  not,  by 
living  with  me,  be  obliged  to.  set  aside  those 
plans  you  have  laid  down  in  order  to  preserve 
that  happiness,  which  you  so  justly  prize — I  wish 
you  happy,  and  therefore  propose  to  you  this 
step,  which  may  advance  your  prospects  in  life. 

Louisa.    But,  Madam,  as  we  advance  in  life, 
are  we  always  the  happier? — Is  content  alwjtjphr  I 
the  concomitant  of  wealth  and  state  ? — If  my  ap-  I 
prehensions  be  just,  the  increase  of  riches  does  v 
not  in  the  smallest  degree  tend  to  enhance  our 
comforts  ;  but  very  often  to  augment  our  causes  of 
discontent— -Let  us  but  watch  the  peasant's  face- 
Is  it  not  blithsome,  gay  and  easy  ? — Day  after 
clay  to  him  is  still  the  same — Scene  after  scene  is 
still  alike  ;  and  yet  he  lacks  for  nought— Soon  as 
he  wakes,  he  knows  his  whole  day's  work  ;  and 
his  mind  turns  on  that  his  only  care — His  labour 
o'er,  homeward  he  bends  his  way  ;    and  joining 
his  sweet  fireside,  he  feels  not  a  wish  uncrown- 
ed— But,  what  is  the  security  to  this  peasant's 
bliss? — Is  it  not  his  confined  mind,  his  bounded 
notions,  his  contracted  views  ? — Nature  in  him  is 
satisfied,  possessing  all  that  she  desires — Having 
each  wish  of  his  heart  gratified,  he  cannot  ask 
for  more,  knowing  not  what  he  should  demand. 

Lady  Milford.  (Aside.)  What  a  Godlike 
mind  ! — ( to  Louisa )    True,    Miss  Louisa,  but 


Act  IV. 


CABAL  AM)  LOVE. 


7  7 


you  have  said  nothing  yet  to  substantiate  your  ob- 
jections to  live  with  me. 

Louisa.  Lady  Milford,  you  said  just  now,  that 
you  wished  me  happy — then  leave  me  to  my  hum- 
ble lot — {approaching  Lady  Milford,  and  with  feel* 
jng)  Are  you  happy,  Madam  ? — Does  the  inward 
festivity  of  that  heart  (laying  her  hand  on  Lady 
Miljord's  heart)  answer  to  this  external  glitter  I 
(pointing  to  the  splendour  of  Lady  Milford' s  dress ) 
—(looking  at  her  with  great  softness  J  Is  every 
beat  the  throb  of  content  ;  and  each  tumult  the 
tumult  of  bliss  ? — Suppose  we  were  to  exchange 
bosom  for  bosom— destiny  'for  distiny — and  then 
were  I  to  make  a  solemn  appeal  to  you  to  declare 
the  person  benefited  ;  on  whom,  think  you,  would 
the  decision  fall  ? 

Lady  Milford.  (Much  agitated  and  throwing 
merself  on  the  sofa )  No,  girl,  no — this  elevation 
of  mind  you  never  could  acquire  from  your  fa- 
ther— but  I  find  the  lessons  of  another  tutor. 

Louisa.  If  in  my  language  you  can  discern 
that  tutor's  instructions,  (with  pointed  expression) 
how  came  it  to  pass,  Madam,  that  you  just  now 
thought  proper  to  propose  to  the  pupil  of  such  a 
tutor  the  offer  even  of  a  servant's  place  ? 

Lady  Milford,  ( Rising  in  anger )  Oh  !  this  is 
no  longer  to  be  borne — But  hear  presumptuous 
girl — I  know  all — I  am  acquainted  with  all  your 
hellish  tricks — but  henceforth  dare  not  to  look  on 
him  with  the  eye  of  love  ;  or  even  to  meet  from 
him  a  glance,  which  passion  may  denote — else, 
fear  my  fury  ;— for  I  am  mighty  and  can  do' 
wonders — And,  if  I  be  not  obeyed ;  if  on  him 
thine  eye  shoot  the  faintest  beam  of  love,  by  the 
eternal  powers  I  swear  you  are  forever  lost. 

Louisa.  Beyond  all  possible  recovery,  Madam, 
when  once  ( pointedly)  you  force  him  to  love  you* 

Lady  Milford.  I  understand  you.  Miss— but  I 
(vol.  ii.)  cc  2 


73 


CABAL  AND  L0VK. 


Jet  IK 


am  above  accepting  his  love  on  those  terms — —I 
will  suppress  this  shameful  passion  ; — obtain  a 
victory  over  my  own  heart,  but  still  defeat  your 
plans — Yes,  rocks  and  mountains  will  I  raise,  to 
sever  your  fond  hearts— a  very  fury  I  will  rage  a- 
round  you  to  confute  your  schemes  : — My  name 
like  a  hideous  ghost  shall  haut  your  cursed  home  ; 
hold  each  warm  kiss  from  off*  your  glowing  lips, 
and  check  each  sally  in  its  very  birth — then  that 
young  bloommg  form,  locked  in  his  arms,  pant- 
ing and  trembling  in  his  warm  embrace,  I  will 
plunder  with  these  destructive  hands  ;  till  each 
attraction  cease,  and  beauty  fade  To  spoil  en- 
joyment is  enjoyment  still. 

Louisa.  Oh  Lady  Milford  I — Do  not  stamp  upon 
your  heart  a  calumny  which  it  does  not  deserve — 
As  soon  as  your  bosom  will  have  re-assumed  its 
wonted  calmness,  you  will  recoil  at  the  dismal 
effect  of  passion  ;  and  find  yourself  unable  to  put 
your  threats  into  execution — Be  assured,  that  you 
will  not  be  inclined  to  torture  a  poor  creature, 
who  has  never  done  the  least  thing  to  injure  you 
and  whose  sole  offence  is  that  of  having  loved-— 
Now,  Madam,  only  see  the  difference  between 
you  and  me—I  not  only  feel,  but  also  respect  eve- 
ry tumult  and  emotion  of  that  heart  which  has 
been  agitated  like  mine  by  one  common  object — In 
testimony  of  this  assertion — 

Lady  Milford.  (Stopping  her  and  quite  softened  by 
Louisa's  impressive  speecli)  No  more,  sweet  girl, 
lovely,  noble,  godlike  Louisa  ! — Can  you  forgive 
a  heart,  by  fury  torn  ?— Believe  me,  there  was  no 
meaning  in  my  threats  ;  for  I  knew  not  what  I 
said — Not  a  single  hair  upon  your  head  shall  be 
hurt  by  me— I  will  cherish  you  as  a  friend  and 
as  a  sister— ask  what  you  will,  it  shall  be  granted 
—your  father  is  poor — here  take  these  jewels, 
{Taking  some  of  her  jewels  from  her  hair)  take  any 
thing  you  wish  for — I  will  sell  my  wardrobe,  carri- 


Act  IV. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


79 


ages  horses — all,  all  are  yours  (Dropping  her  voice) 
Only  renounce  him. 

Louisa.  Oh  Madam  !— were  I  sure,  that  you  do 
not  hold  me  in  derision  ;  and  that  you  were  not  ac- 
cessary to  that  fatal  letter — 

Lady  Milford.  What  letter  ? — I  know  of  none— 
By  all  that  is  sacred,  I  know  of  no  letter. 

Louisa.  No  ? — -{With  great  emotion)  Take  him 
then  away,  Madam — Willingly  do  I  resign  to  you 
that  man,  whom  with  the  very  grapples  of  Hell 
you  could  not  have  wrenched  from  my  bleeding 
side — But,  take  him  away — the  world's  no  more  to 
me — Unknowingly,  perhaps,  do  you  rob  Heaven 
of  two  lovers  ;  and  tear  asunder  two  hearts,  which 
God  himself  united— Unknowingly,  perhaps,  do 
you  crush  a  poor  wretch,  whom,  Heaven  created 

to  be  happy  as  well  as  you  -A  creature,  whose 

heart  is  equally  susceptible  of  every  tender  emo- 
tion as  your's  ;  a  being,  who  prized  the  glow  and 
throb  of  delight  with  rapture  at  least  as  fierce — 
Bin:,  take  him  away — now  he  is  yours — {wildly) 
Drag  him  to  the  altar — Rush  into  his  arms — But, 
have  a  care  that  the  ghost  of  a  self  murderer  do 
not  stalk  along  the  hallowed  aislq,  to  interrupt  the 
marriage  rites  j  and  step  with  violence  'twixt  the 
bridal  kiss.  (Exit. 

Scene  VIII. — Lady  Milford,  alone. 
Lady  Milford.  (Much  agitated ;  her  looks  direct- 
ed to  the  door,  where  Louisa  went  out)  How  was  that? 
— What  said  she  Heavens  ! — those  horrid  sounds 
still  vibrate  in  my  ear — Take  him  away— .Whom,, 
hapless  girl  ?— The  gift  of  thy  last  hour  ? — The 
dreadful  legacy  of  thy  despair  ? — Eternal  God  ?— 
Am  I  then  fallen  so  low — all  at  once  so  precipi- 
tated from  my  throne  of  greatness,  as  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  liberality's  kind  gift  ? — Nay  even  a  beg- 
gar's mite,  her  last  only  mite? — Louisa,  No — Jane. 
Milford  has  a  mind  as  well  as  you  ;  and  can  re- 
nounce a  passion,  though  it  should  cost  her  many 


30 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  IF. 


a  pane — Seducingscen.es  of  love  farewell ! — Image 
of  Faulkener  !  for  ever  quit  my  sight — To  every 
fond  deluding  hope,  to  every  golden  vision  of  ro- 
mantic bliss  I  bid  adieu !  Generosity  must  be 

now  my  guide— Either  this  fond  pair  are  lost  ;  or 

I  must  withdraw  all  former  claims  (pause)  'Tis 

done — I  leave  the  court  this  day  ;  for,  here  to  stay, 

after  what  has  passed  that  will  not  even  bear 

a  thought  1  am  resolved — every  bar  is  remov- 
ed, and  every  difficulty  achieved—Each  shameful 
tie  between  the  Prince  and  me  with  a  willing  hand 
I  break  ;  and  draw  a  curtain  upon  all  past  scenes 
— I'll  instantly  write  to  his  Highness  ;  and  inform 
him,  that,  before  he  receive  my  letter,  I  shall  have 
for  ever  abandoned  him  and  his  court.  --(With 
self  satisfaction)  The  thought  how  glorious  ! — The 
resolve  how  sweet! — Henceforth,  Oh  Virtue!  be 
my  constant  guide  ;  and  steer  me  safely  to  thy 
realms  of  peace  :  Thy  blissful  barriers  I'll  no  more 
o'erleap,  but  firmly  cling  to  recAifcude  and  truth: 
Bear  me,  Oh  !  bear  me  from  these  baneful 
climes,  where  lurking  vipers,  mental  rest  corrode  ; 
where  dire  contagion's  dart  its  flight  doth  wing  'r 
frail  mortal  reaches,  and  his  manners  taints ;  in- 
fects his  habits,  and  his  mind  corrupts  : — But  if, 
like,  me,  by  thy  bless'd  power  relieved,  the  path 
of  evil  he  would  haste  to  shun  : — like  me,  degener- 
ate vice  he  would  abhor,  and  fly  those  regions* 

once  delight's  gay  throne  :  And  though  with- 

self-upbrading  shame  oppress'd,  on  the  sad  retros- 
pect of  former  days  ;  his  prayer  to  Heav'n,  like 
mine,  would  still  be  this  ;   that,  though  to  mercy 

ev'ry  claim  be  lost:  though  he  have  tresspass'd 

'gainst  the  shrine  of  faith  ;  still,  life's  grand  bliss 
he  fondly  hopes  to  share,  in  the  enjoyment  of  that 
grace  divine,  which  to  aftiiclion  yields  a  grateful 
balm ;  and  to  past  gifts  those  peerless  treasures 
adds — a  mind  to  relish  and  a  heart  to  feel. 

i*B   OF   THE   FOURTH  ACT. 


Act  V. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


A  C  T  v. 

Scene  I*-— The  dusk  of  the  evening — A  Room  in 
Miller's  House. 

(The  scene  discovers  Louisa  sitting  inacorner  of  the 
room  in  a  disconsolate  posture— After,  a  long  pause, 
Miller  enters  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand  ;  looks 
anxiously  about  the  room,  without  perceiving  hi^ 
daughter;  then  lays  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  sets 
the  lantern  down.) 

Miller.  What ! — not  here  neither  ? — {wringing 
his  hands)  Good  God  !  I  can  no  more — Each 
street  I  have  traversed — At  every  door  I  have 
knocked  ;  but  no  one  has  beheld  my  child— (a 
short  pause  J  Oh  Heavenly  Powers! — If  this  fond 
father's  heart  glow  with  too  warm  affection  for 
this  child,  let  me  not  know  the  doom  1  dread — 
Let  me  not  live  to  feel  this  worst  of  human  ills  ; 
but,  kindly  snatch  me  from  so  dire  a  scene  ;  and 
in  death's  sleep  end  each  corroding  pang. 

Louisa.  {In  a  plaintive  voice )  Why  mourns 
my  father  thus  ? 

Miller.  (Overjoyed.)  And  can  it  be  ? — It  is — 
It  is  my  own  Louisa — But  why  thus  all  alone, 
and  in  the  dark  ? 

Louisa,  When  thus  I  am  wrapped  in  sullen 
night,  with  me  doth  all  seem  well  ;  for,  to  me 
sweetly  congenial  is  the  sable  gloom. 

Miller.  Did  I  not  know  your  mind's  unsullied 
purity,  I  should  think  that  guilt  had  prompted 
this  sad  lower  ;  for,  what  but  minds,  that  are 
corrupt,  thus  shun  the  light  ? 

Louisa.  Ah  father  ! — here  is  your  inference 
not  nice  enough — Oh  !  for  once,  away  with  com- 
mon notions,  and  prescribed  ideas— OtT  from  the 
beaten  track  ;  and,  with  a  clear  acumen  consider 
a  female's  mind — .They  call  us  soft  and  weak  ; 


32 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  Vs 


poor  etfen  in  thought,  and  timid  in  resolve — So* 
indeed  sometimes  we  are — But,  when  once  the 
fibres  of  the  mind  are  strung  ;  once  roused  the 
passions  that  awake  the  soul  ;  trust  me,  by  the 
bold  nerve  of  intellect  is  our  sex  as  well  marked 
as  your's— Father,  will  you  take  charge  of  this* 
letter  ! 

Miller.    To  whom,  Louisa  ? 

Louisa.  Singular  question  indeed — To  whom 
should  it  be  but  to  Ferdinand,  the  spring  of  my 
every  thought. 

Miller.  ( Alarmed )  Louisa,  I  am  determined' 
to  open  this  letter  ? 

Louisa.  Do  as  you  will  ;  but  you  will  leani 
nothing — Dark  is  the  character,  in  which  each 
line  is  traced — No  eye,  save  that  of  love,  can  see 
the  drift  ;  but  passion's  ken  will  find,  that  with 
emphatic  meaning  every  word  is  fraught. 

Miller.  ( Reads.)  "  Ferdinand,  thou  art  be 
"  trayed — By  a  villainy  unparalleled,  the  ties, 
"  which  so  sweely  united  our  faith,  are  dissolved 
"  A  tremendous  oath  has  fettered  my  tongue  ;  and 
"  thy  father's  listeners  watch  all  around — Yet  m 
"  beloved,  if,  like  me,  all  fear  thou  deride  ;  and  like 
c<  me,  with  courage  be  armed,  I  know  a  third  place, 
"  where  weak  is  the  force  of  an  oath  ;  and  where 
"  listeners  will  find  no  access — ' — {Miller  pauses 
here,  and  loo-ks  Louisa  earnestly  in  the  face.) 

Louisa,    Why  that  earnest  look,  father  ? 

Miller.  (Proceeding  with  the  letter.)  "Withun- 
"  shakeable  firmness  thou  must  wander  though  a 
"  long  dark  passage  ;  thou  must  pierce  the  black 
tl  regions,  where  thou  wilt  find  Louisa  thy  guide — 
"  Tenderness  must  pervade  thy  whole  frame— 
"  The  breath  thou  breathest,  must  be  the  very 
"  breath  of  love — Louisa  the  grand  goal  of  de- 
t«  sire — If  thus  inflexibly  thy  mind  be  nerved, 
4t  haste  away  when  the  clock  of  the  Carmelite 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


JB3 


V  steeple  strikes  twelve — Tkit  if  soul  thou  do 
"  lack  ;  and  like  a  tatne  dastard  do  shudder  and 
shrink,  dash  out  the  word  courageous  from 
"  thy  sex ;  for,  a  maiden  overwhelms  thee  with 
"  shame." 

Miller.  ( Looks  at  Louisa  for  some  time  very 
fixedly,  then  in  a  low  trembling  voice)  And  this 
third  place,  Louisa  ? 

Louisa.  Seek  not  to  know  it — It  will  be  in 
vain  ;  Ferdinand  will  find  it. 

Miller.  Name  it,  my  child  ;  nor  keep  me 
•  longer  in  suspense. 

Louisa,  I  know  no  soft  and  lovely  name  that 
suits  it — O  love  !  hadst  thou  created  titles,  then 
what  a  name  would  this  heavenly  spot  have 
had? — This  third  place,  my  good  father,  is,  (look- 
ing at  him  pointedly)  the  grave. 

Miller.    (Staggering  to  a  chair)  Oh  Heavens  ! 

Louisa.  Doth  brightness  terrify  ;  or  $oth 
beauty  appal  ?— -Why  so  shocked  ? — — 'Tis  but 
the  name  that  is  so  hideous — Away  with  little 

fears  ! — What  is  in  a  name  ?  -Do  I  not  invite 

him  to  the  sweet  abode  of  peace  ? — To  the  man- 
sion of  the  blessed  ? — Suppress  this  dread  ;  and 
keep  in  view  the  dazzling  edifice  of  eternal  bliss — 
Thither  I  bend  my  way — 'Tis  time  to  shift  this 
,«r  dismal  scene — High  time  to  withdraw,  when 
*  every  moment  we  feel  that  we  are  scorned. 

Miller.    Then  all  my  comfort  is  to  learn,  that 

suicide  is  your  fixed  intent-— Oh  God  !■  Suicide, 

that  most  tremendous  of  crimes  ! — Of  which  to 
repent,  no  space  of  time  is  allowed  ;  for  the 
very  moment  of  guilt  is  the  period  of  life. 

Louisa.  (Sitting  on  the  chair  near  the  table,  and 
hiding  her  face  with  her  hands.  J  Merciful  powers  i 

Miller.  (Warmly J  Oh  Louisa  ! — If  in  that 
heart  of  yours,  there  still  be  room  to  feel  for  him, 
v  horn  once  you  gave  the  name  of  parent — Oh  I 


84 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


Act  V. 


'■mark  my  words — Low  have  you  bowed  me,  my 
only  one  ;  low  !  low  perhaps  even  to  the  grave  !— . 
Need  I  say,  you  are  my  all,  the  very  idol  of  my 

soul  And  will  you  tear  yourself,    my  only 

blessing  from  me  ;  and  leave  me  destitute  of  all 
that  life  esteems  ? 

Louisa.  ( Kissing  his  hand  with  great  emotion*) 
Dear  father,  I  quit  this  world  your  greatest 
debtor  ;  but  in  the  life  to  come  I  will  pay  your 
fondness  ten  fold  back. 

Miller,,  {Fixing  her  with  his  eye.)  Take  heed, 
my  child,  that  your  reckoning  be  not  false — ( pro- 
ceeding in  a  solemn  manner.')  Shall  we  there  meet, 
Louisa  ? — On  that  grand  and  solemn  day,  when 
the  avenging  hand  of  the  most  High  will  punish 
every  a£t,  repugnant  to  the  law  of  faith — — 
{Louisa  falls  on  her  father's  neck  ;  he  continuing 
with  great  earnestness)  On  that  awful  day,  when  the 
final  doom  of  all  must  be  according  to  the  work 
achieved,  vain  will  be  the  voice  of  supplication — 
vain  a  fond  father's  intercession — The  Judge  of 
mankind  will  hold  the  scale  of  equity  ;  and  must 
be  deaf  to  entreaty  and  prayer — (  With  great  feel- 
ing )  How  then  ? — Unhappy  girl,  how  then  ? 

Louisa.  ( Clinging  around  her  father's  neck )  Fa- 
ther, forbear — forbear* 

Miller.  Once  more  I  warn  you — Each  faculty 
of  thought  collect — To  follow  your  bier  to  the  tomb 
would  almost  turn  my  brain  ;  but  ( shuddering ) 
thus  to  see  you  rush  into  your  Maker's  presence—- 

Louisa.  (Stopping  him,  violently  agitated)  Hold 
here  for  mercy's  sake,  my  father. 

Miller.  (Very  warmly)  Call  me  not  so- — you 
are  no  more  my  child — and,  to  the  weight  of  sins, 
wherewith  you  are  oppressed,  add  that,  of  having 
drawn  upon  yourself.  -a  father's  curse.  ( Rush- 
ing out  of  the  room. 

Louisa.    (Falling  on  her  knee  and  stopping  him) 


Act  V. 


CA3AL   AND  LOVE. 


S5 


One  moment  stay — You  must  not  leave  me  thus— 
What  should  I  do  to  regain  my  father's  love  ? 

Miller.  If  the  kisses  and  caresses  of  a  lover 
more  warmly  animate  you,  than  the  tears,  and 
sobs  of  a  father  -die. 

Louisa.  C After  a  violent  conflict )  I  am — I 
am  again  your  child — Oh  1  how  weak  is  all,  when 
weighed  against  a  father's  love  and  tenderness  !— 
Ferdinand,  thus  I  sacrifice  thee  ;  (  Tearing  the  let- 
ter) and  thus  I  seal  a  parent's  peace  and  comfort. 

Miller.  Merciful  Heaven  1 — Let  this  a6t  be  re- 
corded on  high— •( overjoyed  falling  on  his  knee ) 
Let  this  mark  of  elasticity  of  mind  be  stamped  on 
the  annals  of  truth— To  e.ich  parent  I  turn  to  at- 
test this  bright  deed,  as  now  is  instanced  in  my 
heaven -born  child. 

Louisa.  Cease,  father,  cease — nor  let  me  hear 
my  nothings,  thus  extolled — My  own  heart's  plea- 
sure is  sufficient  praise— >( Hearing  some  one  coming) 
Quick  let  us  away — J  hear  some  one. 

Scene  II. — Enter  Ferdinand. 

Louisa.  '(Shrieking  she  throws  herself  on  her  fa- 
ther's neck  J  Heavens  • — 'Tis  he  ! — 'Tis  he  I — I  am 
lost. 

Miller.    Who  ?— Where  ? 

Louisa.  'Her  face  turned  from  Ferdinand)  'Tis 
he  himself! — To  murder  me  he  is  come  I 

Miller.  (Perceiving  Ferdinand  and  starting  hack) 
You  here  Major  Fauikener  ? 

Ferdinand.  ( He  slowly,  approaches  ;  then  goes 
up  to  Louisa,  and  looks  her  stemry  in  the  face — a 
short  pause )  Mark  the  infallible  declaration  of  con- 
science— Thanks  for  this  surprise — The  avowal  is 
terrible,  but  clear  ;  and  happily  saves  the  pain  of 
further  enquiry — Good  evening,  Miller. 

Miller.    What  brings  you  hither  Major  ? — Why 


B(V0L.  II.) 


86 


CA3AL   AND  LOVE. 


Act  V. 


thus  take  us  by  surprise,  when  we  so  little  thought 
of  seeing  you  ? 

Ferdinand,  I  have  known  the  time,  when  for 
my  coming  every  minute  of  the  day  was  told-~ 
when  anxious  longing  hung  on  every  hour;  and 
when  by  fond  desire  the  lazy-pacing  clock  was 
chidden — Then,  Louisa,  some  one  was  wont  to 
exclaim  "  With  what  heavy  and  retarding  weight 
cloth  expectation  load  the  wings  of  time  !" — {turn- 
ing to  Miller)  Whence,  friend,  this  wondrous 
change  ? 

Miller.  Major,  I  pray  you,  go — Depart,  if  yet 
one  spark  of  pity  dwell  within  your  breast — Before 
you  entered  my  house,  sweet  was  the  meal  of  the 
day  :  No  wish  we  could  form  was  uncrowned  : 
Uncloudy  each  morn  and  each  eve  :  But,  since 
the  fatal  day,  when  first  you  saw  this  hapless  maid, 
misery  has  pierced  the  roof,  which  till  then  was 
the  abode  of  content. 

Ferdinand.  Cheer  up,  cheer  up,  old  friend — 
Tidings  of  joy  I  come  to  communicate — Hopes, 
substantial  hopes,  I  come  now  to  impart. 

Miller.  Major,  mock  not  thus  distress — Hopes 
to  us?— Then  from  the  very  ashes  of  despair  these 

hopes  must  spring — No — No — No— No  To  us 

set  is  the  bright  planet  of  hope. 

Ferdinand.  Lady  Milford,  the  most  dreaded 
obstacle  to  our  love,  has  just  left  the  country — No 
thing  else  is  talked  of — My  father  now  consent 
to  our  union  Fortune  at  length  is  propitiou 
to  our  wishes  ;  and  I  come  to  claim  my  lovely 
bride. 

Miller.   (  To  Louisa,  who  during  this  scene  is  seat- 
ed by  the  table,  her  head  sunk  on  her  arm )  Regar 
him  not,  Louisa ;  nor  let  his  insults  add  to  you 
distress. 

Ferdinand.  You  think  I  am  in  jest — By  Hea- 
vens I  am  not — My  heart  is  open  as  my  speech 


Act  V. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


87 


There  is  Louisa's  throne — What  I  still  the  mien 
of  chilling  doubt? — Not  yet  the  timid  blush  of  joy 
upon  those  beauteous  cheeks  ? — Wonderful  ! — 
Falshood  must  indeed  here  be  current  coin,  when 
sterling  truth  meets  such  distrust — Believe  then 
here  a  written  evidence  of  purity  and  truth  (Throw- 
ing before  Louisa  her  letter  to  the  Baron.) 

Louisa.  (Opens  the  letter  and  sinks  doivn  quite 
oppressed,  as  soon  as  she  finds  it  to  be  that,  written 
by  her  to  the  Barcn.J 

Miller.  (Without  observing  Louisa,  to  Ferdinand) 
What  mean  you  by  that  letter,  Major  ? — I  do  not 
understand  you. 

Ferdinand.  ( Pointing  to  Louisa  )  Ask  her,  old 
man  ! — Too  well  she  has  understood  me. 

Miller.     ( Seeing  Louisa  pale  J  Oh  Heaven  !  ■■ 
my  child  ! 

Ferdinand.  Pale  as  death  ! — Never  before  did 
she  so  beauteous  seem — With  that  death-like  face, 
what  charms  till  now  unseen ! — Conscience  ! — Con- 
science ! — Thy  voice  how  comprehensive  ! — Thy 
compunction  how  eloquent ! — To  my  struck  mind 
appears  the  grand  effects  of  the  last  judgment's 
blast,  that  will  from  subtle  falsehood's  mien  tear 
the  very  gloss,  which  in  this  miserable  world  so 
often  cheats  fair  reciitude's  aim  ;  preys  on  inte- 
grity's truth  :  and  makes  us  wretched  mortals  bear 
woe's  galling  fetters  ;  till,  at  length,  harassed  by 
rubs,  we  buckle  on  misantroph's  garb  ;  lose  all 
cordial  confidence  towards  human  kind  ;  are  foes 
to  all,  and  think  ail  foes  to  us — Oh  heavy,  heavy 
doom  1 — Here  (Pointing  to  Louisa)  is  that  gloss  re- 
moved— Here  is  her  first  true  face — There  I  will 
plant  a  kiss — (Going  to  kiss  Louisa.) 

Miller.  (Stepping  between  him  and  Louisa)  Stand 
back  1  young  man  ! — Do  not  thus  harrow  up  a  fa- 
ther's heart — From  your  insidious  caresses  I  could 


88 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Ac)  V. 


not  guard  her  ;  but,  from  your  insults,  I  can  and 
will. 

Ferdinand.  Old  man,  you  much  mistake  me — 
Each  parental  feeling  of  yours  I  consider  and  re- 
spect— But,  be  advised — take  henceforth  no  part 
in  a  game,  so  clearly  lost — My  business  now  is 
not  wilh  you — 'Tis  with  Louisa  I  must  speak — 
{Taking  the  letter  out  of  Louisa's  hand)  Say,  wretch- 
ed girl,  is  thai  letter  thine? 

Miller.  (Earnestly).  Daughter  be  firm — For 
Heavens  cake  now  be  firm. 

Louisa.    Oh  !  my  father,  that  letter  

Ferdinand.  Which  by  chance  fell  into  my  hands 
— Chance  do  I  call  it  ? — Oh  Providence  ! — Dark 
and  intricate,  but  wisely  ordained  are  all  thy  ways 
— When  but  a  sparrow  falls,  thy  goodness  is  ex- 
erted—Wny  not  when  a  demon  is  unmasked?  I 
will  be  answerable  Didst  thou  write  that  let- 
ter ? 

Miller.  (Aside,  imploring  her  by  signs)  Steady, 
dear  £irl — Steady — But  a  bare  yes,  and  the  con- 
flict is  past. 

Ferdinand.  What  1  The  father  too  deceived  ? 
—Well  1  each  is  cheated  in  his  turn — Look  how 
my  fair  one  trembles  ! — determined,  but  half 
afraid,  longer  the  mask  to  wear — Swear  by  thy 
God,  the  symbol  of  truth — Didst  thou  write  that 
letter  ? 

Louisa.  (After  a  struggle,  in  which  she  and  Mil- 
ler converse  by  looks)  I  did  write  that  letter. 

Ferdinand.  (Stands  terrified)  Louisa — No — If 
my  pulse  beat,  'tis  false — If  I  still  move,  and  have 
my  being,  it  is  false — Thou  dost  avow  this  crime, 
like  the  poor  innocent  wretch,  from  whom,  when 
stretched  upon  the  infernal  rack,  confession  is  for- 
ced of  guilt,  which  never  stained  his  mind — I  was 
too  violent — Was  I  not,  Louisa? — and  that  letter 
thou  didst  not  write. 


Act  V. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


80 


Louisa.  It  was  indeed  truth  which  I  confessed. 

Ferdinand.  {Warmly)  'Twas  not — 'Twas  not — I 
say — 'twas  not — It  is  not  within  possibility's  ca- 
pacious sphere,  that  now  thou  dost  speak  truth — 
So  conscious  am  I  of  it,  that  I  again  do  ask,  if 
that  damned  scrawl  was  penned  by  thee  or  not — i 
But,  no — I  ask  it  not — I  ask  it  not — lest,  perad- 
venture,  another  yes,  tremendous  as  the  former 
was,  should  strike  my  astonished  ear  ;  and  hurl 
me  into  misery's  abyss,  whence  no  exit  I  should 
ever  know — ( short  pause,  during  which  he  contem- 
plates Louisa  avith  admiration )  But  yes — {animated) 
my  whole  stock  of  biiss  I'll  stake  upon  this  angel's 
brow  ;  for,  it  appears  to  me,  as  easily  could  I 
with  these  two  hands  the  earth's  big  chaos  grasp  ; 
as  that  a  mind  of  such  seraphick  sweetness  could 
thus  beguile  the  cause  of  truth — {turning  to  Louisa) 
Louisa,  free  from  all  doubt,  I  ask  thee — Didst 
thou  write  that  letter  ? 

Lousia.    Then  by  the  God  of  all — I  did. 

Ferdinand.  (Thunderstruck  and  falling  against 
the  scene )    Merciful  Heavens  ! 

{Here  it  is  left  to  the  judgment  of  the  actor,  how  to  express  the 
anguish,  which  this  last  declaration  of  Louisa  occasions — 
Let  the  actor  sufficiently  weigh  Ferdinand's  present  dread- 
ful state  of  mind,  and  he  will  readily  allow,  that  it  would 
have  been  a  gross  violation  of  nature,  to  have  made  Ferdi- 
nand here  roar  out  a  lo:g  speech,  indicative  of  the  agony  ex- 
perienced; since  it  is  a  very  prevalent  opinion  amongst  thosz 
who  know  the  human  mind,  that  all  violent  emotions  are  not 
expressed  by  speech  '; — judicious  leaks,  gesticulation  proper- 
ly adapted  to  the  situation,  denotes  mental  disquiet  with  far 
greater  ejfect. — Durir.g  this  struggle  of  Ferdinand's,  Louisa's 
eyes  should  be  rivetted  on  him,  watching  him  with  all  ima- 
ginable anxiety  ;  and  they  ought  to  express  the  lively  con- 
cern which  she  takes  in  his  distress  -On  the  other  hand, 
Midler's  whole  manner  should  discover  the  distrust  which 

.  he  has  of  Louisa's  firmness  on  this  occasion  ;  and  he  ought  to 
be  constantly  erJeaxourivg,  though  in  vain,  to  avert  her  ciien- 

tiC:.) 

d  d  2 


00 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  V. 


Ferdinand.  One  more  request  ( with  an  al- 
most totally  exhausted  voice)  It  is  the  last--My 
head  burns — Louisa  !  will  you  make  me  a  glass 
of  lemonade  ? 

Louisa.  This  moment — (With  great-  feeling) 
Only  be  composed  !  {Leaves  the  room. 

Scene  III. — Ferdinand  and  Miller.    As  soon 

as  Louisa  leaves  the  room,  Ferdinand  walks  up  and 
down  for  some  minutes,  arms  across,  head  sunk—* 
At  length  Miller  with  the  voice  of  pity  says  to  him). 

Miller.  Dear  Major,  how  from  my  heart  I  pity 
you  1 

Ferdinand.  O  ! — away  with  pity,  my  good  friend, 
if  that  be  all  the  comfort  you  can  give — (Continu- 
ing to  walk  about  J  Miller,,  at  this  moment  I  can 
scarcely  tell,  what  brought  me  hither. 

Miller.  Surely,  sir,  you  have  not  forgot,  that 
you  sometimes  come  here  to  learn  to  play  upon 
the  flute. 

Ferdinand.  True — True — I  fondly  thought,  that, 
where  the  soft  charms  of  music  were  known;, 
there  the  mind,  by  harmony  attuned,  turned  on  sin- 
cerity's pole  and  echoed  to  concord's  mild  sound 
— But,  harsh  have  been  the  tones  of  our  flute — 
(Falling  upon  Miller's  neck )  But,  you  are  not  to 
blame,  old  man  ! — The  fault  is  not  in  you. 

Miller.    No — as  I  hope  for  mercy,  it  is  not. 

Ferdinand.  (Short  pay.se — walking  again  up  and. 
down  the  room.) 

Miller.  I  cannot  fioxiceiye,  wbat  thus  detains 
Louisa — With  your -leave,  Major,  1*11  see  for  the 
lemonade. 

Ferdinand.  No  haste,  good  Miller — (aside)  es- 
pecially not  for  you,  old  man — What  was  I  going 

to  say  ?  Oh — I  recollect — Louisa  is  not  your 

only  child  ? 

Miller,    She  is  my  only  child  ;  nor  do  I  wish 


Act  V. 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


for  more — In  her  is  centred  all  my  joy,  my  sole 
delight — My  girl  just  fills  up  all  the  room  within 
her  father's  heart — (weeping)  And  whilst  with  her 
I  am  blessed,  I  shall  always  say,  that  I  am,  though 
poor,  a  very  very  happy  man. 

Ferdinand.  (Violently  agitated)  Ha ! — see  for  the 
drink  good  Miller. 

Scene  IV. — Ferdinand  alone. 

His  only  child  ? — Oh  heavens  !— All  his  stock 
of  happiness  in  this  wide  world  ? — Murderer  ! 
feelst  thou  that  ?  Deprive  a  venerable  poor  old 
man  of  the  last  gleam  of  comfort ! — Am  I  then 
grown  so  callous  ? — What  !  Dash  the  crutch,  on 
which  the  cripple  leaned,  in  pieces  before  his 
feet  ? — (short  pause )  And  when  with  soft  affec- 
tion's throb  he  hurries  home,  eager  in  his 
Louisa's  face  to  cast  up  the  sum  of  all  his  joy— . 
Good  God  I  will  he  not  find  her  lifeless  on  the  bed 
of  death  ? — Clay-cold  each  animated  charm  of 

loveliness  and    youth  ?  Have  I   a  heart  for 

that  ? — No — no — no — I  will  proceed  no  further 

in  this  plan  Here  let  me  pause;  and  of  this 

pi&ure  take  a  sad  survey-—^ another  short  pause  j— 
Soft  I  soft  1— -A  ray  of  radiant  light  breaks  forth— 
(again  fixed  in  thought )  Oh  !  I  am  shallow- 
minded,  and  lack  the  faculty  and  power  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  amiably  and  insidiously  dis- 
posed ;  for,  can  she,  whose  corrupt  mind  can 
thus  dwell  on  duplicity's  wiles,  thus  doat  on 
hypocrisy's  arts,  be  formed  to  watch  around  an 
aged  father's  bed  ;  and  smooth  the  brow  of 
care  ? — No — Impossible  !— -By  the  baud  above, 
that  heart  was  never  framed  to  perform  those 
tender  offices  of  sweet  filial  piety,  which  could 
thus  renounce  the  lovely  dictates  of  tenderness  ; 
and  thus  vilely  abuse  passion's  sacred  and  refined 
glow.    Then  why  so  timid  ? — Why  shrink  from 


92 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  V. 


that  which  merit  and  not  cruelty  reflects  ?  Who 

knows,  what  heart-rending  pangs  by  this  one  act 
I  may  a  father  save  ?— .For  one,  whose  nature 
thus  clings  to  mischief  and  deceit,  is  capable  of 
all — {in  thought  for  a  moment) — It  is  resolved  ! 

Scene  V. — Ferdinand,   Miller  and  Louisa. 

Louisa,  {with  a  faltering  voice,  handing  Ferdi- 
nand the  glass  oj  lemonade')  If  it  be  not  to  your  liking, 
Major  Fauikener,  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  men- 
tion it. 

Ferdinand.  {Takes  the  glass,  sets  it  down,  and 
goes  up  to  Miller )  My  good  Miller,  I  had  nearly 
forgotten  something — Will  you  do  me  a  favour  ? 

Miller.    W  ith  the  greatest  pleasure,  sir. 

Ferdinand.  I  am  at  this  hour  expected  at  my 
father's  to  supper — But  I  am  just  now  m  such 
miserable  spirits,  that  all  company  would  be  abso- 
lutely intolerable  to  me — Will  you  just  step,  and 
leave  word  that  I  am  prevented  joining  the  party  : 

Louisa.  Father,  let  me  go — I  shall  soon  be 
back.  * 

Miller,  No — No — I  will  go — Tis  dark,  child. 

Ferdinand.  And  besides,  here  is  a  letter  di- 
rected to  him — It  came  this  evening  enclosed  in 

one  to  me  Will  you  take  charge  of  it  ;  and 

deliver  it  to  his  private  secretary  ? 

Louisa.  ( Alarmed  at  the  thought  of  being  left 
alone  with  Ferdinand.)  But,  father  I  could  do 
this  as  well  as  you — Let  me  go,  I  pray. 

Miller.  Ycu  go,  Louisa  ? — At  this  time  of 
the  night  ?  and  alone  too  ? — No — No — No— -I 
shall  return  in  a  few  minutes — (goes.) 

Ferdinand.  'Tis  quite  dark,  Louisa — You  had 
better  light  your  father — (As  soon  as  Louisa  leaves 
the  room  with  the  candle,  in  order  to  light  her  fa- 
ther, he  goes  to  the  table,  and  puts  poison  into  the 
lemonade  J  By  Heaven  it  is  decreed  ! — She  falls  . 


Act  V. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


9  3 


The  powers  above  give  the  terrible  nod  of assenfc— 
Her  guardian  angel  sleeps—and  vengeance  is 
awake  !  !  ! 

Scene  VI. — Ferdinand  and  Louisa. 

C Louisa  returns  slowly  with  the  light,  sets  it  down, 
looking  at  Ferdinand  with  great  fear  and  anxiety- 
Then  she  places  herself  at  the  harpsichord  which 
is  at  one  side  of  the  room.) 

(  A  long  and  expressive  silence  should  precede  this 
scene  J 

Louisa*  Major  Faulkener,  I  wish  that  you 
would  take  your  flute  ;  and  we  would  play  this 
lesson  together. 

Ferdinand.  ( Fixed  in  thought,  and  gloomy,  he 
makes  no  answer — pause. J 

Louisa.    Or,  at  a  game  at  chess,  shall  I  take 

the  revenge  which  you  know,  you  owe  me  ?  

Shall  wTe  play  ? 

Ferdinand.  ( As  before,  he  makes  no  answer-— 
another  pause.) 

Louisa.  But  perhaps  you  would  like  better  to 
retaliate  upon  me  at  your  favourite  game  of 
Piquet — C  Ferdinand  makes  no  answer.  J  Major 
Faulkener,  I  have  just  finished  drawing  the 
pattern  for  the  waistcoat,  which  I  promised  to 
embroider  for  you  ;  would  you  like  to  see  it  ? 

Ferdinand.  {Head  sunk  and  lost  in  thought,  he 
makes  no  answer — pause.  J 

Louisa.    Oh  ! — I  am  very  wretched. 

Ferdinand.  Art  thou  indeed  ? — That  may  well 
be  true. 

Louisa.  As  I  apprehended,  Major  Faulkener, 
we  do  not  suit  each  other  at  this  moment — We 
are  wretched  company  one  to  another — I  trem- 
bled, I  confess,  at  the  thought  of  our  being  left 
alone,  when  just  now  you  sent  my  father  away. 


94 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Act  V. 


Ferdinand.  (With  affected  levity  )  We  mope  too 
much  to  night,  to  be  sure — Suppose  we  call  in  some 
of  the  neighbours  ;  and  of  this  tedious  duet  make 
a  merry  quintetto — Ay,  by  my  honour,  the  cle- 
verest thought,  in  a  situation  like  ours — We  will 
be  sprightly,  and  laugh  at  dull  care  ;  and,  by  the 
help  of  some  sons  of  gay  mirth,  we  will  try  to  re- 
venge ourselves  on  all  the  silly  high-flown  reveries 
of  passion  and  love. 

Louisa.  (Looking  at  Jiim  ivith  surprise )  Ferdi- 
nand Faulkener  ! 

Ferdinand.  (  Pursuing  the  strain  of  levity)  Nay  ! 
why  not  ? — Thou,  Louisa,  must  be  the  very  first 
to  say,  that  they  are  all  mere  fools,  who  constant- 
ly prate  of  never  fading  affection,  and  everlasting 
love — Eternal  sameness  palls — Variety,  dear,  dear 
variety  only  forms  the  soul  of  delight — ( Aside, 
finding  himself  unable  to  support  this  levity  any  lon- 
ger )  Oh  Heavens  ! — That  word  must  be  the  very 
last — I  can  no  longer  thus  dissemble. 

Louisa.  (With feeling )  Oh  Faulkener  !  Faulke- 
ner i — How  it  grieves  me  to  see  thee  so  wretch- 
ed ! 

Ferdinand.    I  wretched  ? — Who  has  told  thee 

so? — Woman ! — Too  fiend-like  art  thou  to  feel  

How  then  of  others  the  sensations  weight  ? — So— • 
So — She  knew,  how  her  medicine  would  operate  ; 
Death  and  perdition  1 — She  knew  all  this  ;  and  yet 

could  Oh  ! — Oh  1 — Oh  1 — thus  whelm  me  in 

agony's  gulf  {bitterly)  Serpent ! — This  avowal 

seals  thy  doom— Had  I  not  heard  that  word,  to 
thy  folly's  madness  I  should  have  imputed  thy 
crime  ;  and  in  the  bosom  of  contempt  have  buried 
all  my  rage  But  now — now — (  Striking  his  fore- 
head )  So,  when  this  imp's  trick  thou  playedst, 
thou  didst  it  not  in  vile  imbecility's  form,  but  in 
that  of  the  very  demon  of  malice  and  guile — ( He 
snatches  the  glass  and  drinks)  The  lemonade  is 


Act  V. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


95 


tasteless — (Sneering  horridly  and  shaking)  Sadly 
flat — Taste  it  I 

Louisa.  Oh  heaven's — Groundless  were  not  my 
terrors  for  this  scene. 

Ferdinand.    (In  a  commanding  manner )  Taste  it ! 

Louisa,    {Takes  the  glass  and  drinks) 

Ferdinand.  (Turns  away,  with  a  sudden  paleness, 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  as  soon  as  she  de- 
gins  to  drink.  J 

Louisa.    The  lemonade  is  good. 

Ferdinand.  (Shuddering  with  horror)  May  good 
come  of  it  then  ! 

Louisa.  Oh  Faulkener  ? — Didst  thou  but  know, 
how  cruelly  thou  wrongs t  my  heart. 

Ferdinand.     (Looks  at  her,  but  makes  no  reply) 

Louisa.    The  time  will  come,  Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand.  ( Looks  again  severely  at  her,  but  says 
L  nothing.  J 

Louisa.  Yes,  Ferdinand,  a  time  indeed  will 
come,  when  thou  wilt  own,  how  cruelly  hard  is 
my  lot. 

Ferdinand.  (Walks  about  with  increasing  anima- 
tion, becoming  every  moment  more  and  more  distur- 
bed) Good  God! — (Taking  off  his  sword,  and  look- 
ing at  it  with  great  emotion)  Once  my  pride  !— — 
my  glory  my  delight  farewell  (Throw- 
ing it  away)  My  steel  alas  I  will  shine  no  more  I — 
My  sinewy  arm  I  shall  no  longer  toss  ! — My  coun- 
try I  can  serve  no  more  1 

Louisa.  My  God  1 — what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ? 

Ferdinand.  Oh  ! — only  a  little  too  confined — Now 
I  shall  be  more  at  ease. 

Louisa.  You  had  better  drink  a  little  more  of 
the  lemonade — That  will  cool  you. 

Ferdinand.  That  is  true — The  wench  is  kind—. 
But  that  they  all  are. 

Louisa.    (Throiving  herself  into  his  arms  with 


96 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Ad  r. 


the  utmost  tenderness)  Do  I  live  to  hear  this  from 
my  Ferdinand  ? 

Ferdinand.  ( Rejecting  her  embrace)  Away  ! — » 
we  have  done  with  that — No  more  of  thy  insi- 
dious lures  None  of  those  soft  and  melting 
looks — Thy  languishing  eye  I  now  behold  with 

antipathy  Serpent  with  the  tongue  of  guile, 

thou  may st  now,  if  thou  wilt,  dart  on  me  thy 

deadly  venom  Arm&d  with  grisly  terror,  thou 

mayst  now  try  to  destroy  me  by  thy  touch  ;  but 

mark  now  I  am  awake  ;  and  thy  fell  aim  I 

can  parry  with  might. 

Louisa,    That  it  should  come  to  this  ! — (Go- 
ing up  the  stage.) 

Ferdinand.  ( Looking  after  her  with  admiration ) 
And  still  what  harmony  of  form  ! — What  perfect 
symmetry  ! — All  so  divinely  beauteous  I — In  eve- 
ry part  the  work  of  Heaven's  most  happy  hour  ! 
Celestial  powers  1  I  do  not  murmur,  nor  rebel  ; — . 
but  in  a  clime  so  exquisite,  why  should  the  dire 
blast  of  infection  be  known  r 

Louisa.    Am  I  doomed  to  hear  this  ? — And 
yet  to  undeceive  him  I  dare  not  attempt. 

Ferdinand.  And  then  that  heavenly  melody  of 
voice,  so  in  concord  with  that  soft  look  of  melan- 
choly, which  captivates  the  soul — Oh  ! — would 
not  one  have  thought,  that  she  was  the  very  mir- 
ror of  sweetness  and  love,  reflecting  at  once  all 
that  the  high  hand  of  Providence  could  give,  even 
when  most  disposed  to  bless? — What  pity,  that, 
when  by  the  Creator's  hand,  that  grand,  noble, 
finishing  touch  was  given,  the  framing  heart  and 
mind — Good  God  ! — How  in  that  moment  erred 
thy  mighty  arm ! 

Louisa.    ( Aside)    Rebellious  youth  ! — Even  at  I 
the  throne  of  Heaven  he  dares  to  level  his  at- 
tack. 


Act  r. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


Ferdinand.  ( Falling  upon  her  neck  J  Once  a- 
gain  Louisa — Once  again  let  me  fold  thee  in  these 
arms,  as  on  that  clay,  when  in  my  heart  dawned 
affection's  first  morn  :  When  o'er  thy  lovely  form, 
fixed  and  enraptured  I  hung :  and  from  thy  Fer- 
dinand's breast  the  first  sigh  of  love  was  reveal- 
ed— ( animated )  Oh  Louisa  !  call  to  mind  that 
bright  hour,  when  first  faltered  my  name  on  thy 
tongue  ;  and  soft  tenderness  flowed  from  thy  lips 
— Heavens  !- — How  then  throbbed  my  warm  heart 
with  content  ! — How  glowed  my  fond  mind  with 
delight ! — The  very  harvest  of  joy  seemed  at 
hand ;  and  attained  the  summit  of  bliss — But, 
now — here  ( pointing  to  the  heart )  rankles  the 
dart  of  distress  ; — here  {striking  his  forehead 
with  anguish)  grows  black  misery's  fang  ;  and 
horror  is  around  me  as  light— Where'er  I  look, 
I  behold  destruction's  fell  fiend — Wheresoe'er  I 
turn,  I  feel  the  harrowing  gripe  of  that  monster 
.despair— C in  tears )  Oh  Louisa  1  Louisa  i  Loui- 
sa ! — why  was  I  thus  so  cruelly  deceived  ? 

Louisa.  Faulkener  1  Faulkener  I — I  stop  not 
thy  tears — Weep  on—Weep  on — Check  not  the 
kindly  gush — To  thy  tears  I  am  entitled,  but  not 
to  thy  wrath. 

Ferdinand.  Oh  !  be  not  deceived — From  the 
source  of  dejection  these  tears  do  not  flow — Those 
are  precious,  to  mine  if  compared — Not  those 
pearly  drops  that  start  from  the  bright  humid  eye, 
when  the  heart  with  mild  tenderness  melts — Not 
the  gush  of  affection's  sweet  spring  ;  nor  the  tor- 
rent of  rapture's  warm  stream— Touched  are  then, 
sensibility's  chords  ;— awake  each  fine  nerve— 
The  tear  then  is  the  symbol  of  comfort,  not  sor- 
row— But  mine  are  like  the  sad  maniac's  groans, 
which  only  re-echo  the  first  cause  of  his  wild* 
ness  and  woe. 


.(VOL.  II.) 


B$  CABAL  AXD   LOVE.  Act  V, 

Louisa*  Oh  spare  me  Faulkener  !_-Spare  my 
aching  breast !  Durst  I  but  open  these  lips,  thy 
ears  I  could  stun  with  surprize  : — But,  by  the 
decree  of  stern  fate,  my  tongue  is  clogged  with 
the  bars  of  restraint ;  and,  whilst  there  those 
fetters  remain,  discord  must  sever  our  hearts, 
and  our  minds  can  know  no  relief. 

Ferdinand.  What  meanest  thou  by  restraint  ? 
If  now  obligation's  curs'd  shackles  thou  feel,  Oh  I 
'tis  time  to  loosen  them  all — If  even  by  oaths 
thou  be  bound,  forget  them  now  ;  for,  at  hand  is 
the  hour,  which  all  human  ties  must  dissolve — 
Oh  Louisa,  declare — this  moment  declare — How 
long  has  the  Baron  thy  love  ? 

Louisa.  Ask  what  thou  wilt,  for  ever  are  sealed 
my  lips. 

Ferdinand.    (  Very  pointedly)  For  thy  own  sake 

I  implore  thee  to  say  Has  the  Baron  thy  love 

or  esteem  ? 

Louisa.    ( Makes  no  answer     <  <  pause ) 
Ferdinand.    Oh  Louisa  1  the  sands  of  life  are  ra- 
p-idly running  away— -Then  do  not  tarry  ;  but  say, 
has  the  Baron  thy  love  or  regard? 
Louisa.     {Makes  no  answer- — — pause) 
Ferdinand.    Oh  ! — knew  thou  but  all,  with  haste 
wouldst  thou  solve  every  doubt;  and  each  flying 
moment  thouwould'st  strive  to  keep  back-  {in 

a  low  voice)  Louisa  !  Louisa !  Short  Oh  short 

is  thy  time  here  on  earth. 

Louisa.    {Looks  at  him  fearfully,  but  says  nothing 
'pause.) 

Ferdinand.  {In  great  agitation)  Well  then  in. 
thunder  thus-^Speak— -How  long  has  the  Baron 
thy  love  ? — {falling  on  one  knee,  and  grasping  her 
hand  eagerly  ;  then  with  great  emotion)  Louisa !  Be- 
fore this  taper  burn  out,  thou  wilt  be  no  more, 

Louisa.    {  Terrified)  Gracious  God !.  What  is 

all  this  ?  C sinking  down  again  upon  the  chair )  and 
aw  I  am  feeble  and  faint. 


GA3AL  AND  LOVE 


99 


Ferdinand.  What ! — Already  ? — Mysterious  in- 
deed ? — Those  very  nerves,  unmoved,  when  the 
base  act  of  guilt  was  performed — unshaken,  when 
the  comfort  of  man  was  at  stake,  by  a  poor  grain 
of  arsenic  are  fully  destroyed. 

Louisa.   Ha!  Poison!  Poison!  Oh  Heavenly 

Powers  ! 

Ferdinand.  Yes  Louisa,  when  that  drink  thou 
didst  taste,  at  that  moment  thou  signedst  death's 
bond. 

Louisa.  Is  it  indeed  so  ? — Death  ? — Death  f — 
Immediate  death  ! — Father  of  mercy  ! — disregard 
me  not. 

Ferdinand.  {Looks  at  her  with  all  imaginable  anx~ 
ieijj.) 

Louisa.  {Growing  weaker  and  weaker)  Oh  my 
poor  father  ! — Ferdinand  can  nothing  save  me  ?— 
I  speak  for  riiy  father's  sake* 

Ferdinand.  Nothing  can  save  thee,  Louisa— 
But  be  at  peace — I  shall  close  my  eyes  with  thee— 
Hence  we  depart  together. 

Louisa.  Ha  ! — Thou  too  Ferdinand  ? — Poison 
from  thee  ? — Oh  God  of  goodness  ! — On  him  turn 
thy  meek  eye  of  forgiveness. 

Ferdinand.  Look  to  thy  own  account,  Louisa— 
That  way  I  dread  to  think. 

Louisa.  Ferdinand,  Ferdinand— I  can  no  long- 
er be  silent  -I  am  now  about  to  tell  thee  some- 
thing which  will  almost  petrify  thee. 

Ferdinand.  (With  great  avidity  J  Ha.  I — Speak! 
Speak  ! 

Louisa.  Death  annuls  every  oath ;  therefore, 
now,  though  too  late,  I  will  tell  thee  a  truth,  which, 
if  sooner  divulged,  might  have  saved  and  preserv- 
ed us  both. 

Ferdinand.    What  do  I  hear  ? — Impossible  ! 

Louisa.  The  whole  earth  contains  not  a  wretch 
so  miserable  as  thou  art  j  for       innocent  I  die. 


10(5  »  CABAL  AND  LOVE.  ,       Ad  Y. 


Ferdinand.    (Thunderstruck )  What  I  What ! 

—Recollect  thyself  -Declare  the  truth,  even 

awful  though  it  be — and  swear  

Louisa,    By  what  ? 

Ferdinand.  ( Eagerly )  By  what  is  dearest  to  thy 
parting  soul. 

Louisa.  Then  let  me  swear  by  our  first  kiss  of 
love,  affection's  balmy  pledge — By  that  I  swear, 
that,  since  that  hour,  when  first  by  tender  con- 
cord and  assent  we  sealed  our  mutual  vows,  I  ne- 
ver have  been  false  to  my  Faulkener,  innocence, 
or  truth — 'And  what  imports  that  letter,  which  thus 
fatally  destroys  us  hfA\\--( feeling  the  poison )  Oh  1 
What  shoots  through  all  my  veins?  Ferdinand, 
now  I  may  speak — Alas  1  that  letter. 

Ferdinand.    Ila  ! — that  letter  !  1  charge  thee 

— Speak,  I  do  conjure  thee,  speak  ! 

Louisa.  (Speaking  with  difficulty,  from  extreme 
weakness )  Oh  !  dearest  Ferdinand,  that  letter" 
Call  up  all  thy  mind  to  hear  a  dreadful  tale — that 
letter — Oh  ! — that  fatal  letter  was  wrung  from  me 
by  thy  father — What  my  hand  wrote,  my  heart 
abhorred. 

Ferdinand.  ( Clasping  his  hands  toivards  Heaven^ 
and  all  at  once  falling  prostrate  on  the  ground  J  Oh 
inhuman  father ! 

Louisa.  ( In  agony )  Oh  ! — nowT  the  poison  works 
— Ferdinand,  forgive  .'twas  all  by- 
force  (  Ferdinand  supports  her  J  Thy— ——Louisa 

—would  have  -preferred— even  death 

 But  'twas  from  prison  to 

release  my— father— — also— I  cannot 

 telL  thee  all  (sinking  more  and  more.) 

Ferdinand.    Heaven  of  my  heart  !       Quit  me 
not  thus. 

Leu  is  a.     My  head  turns  round 

All  is  dark  Blessings  on  thee 

 my       dearest  Ferdinand  !— Oh  Hea- 


Act  V. 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


10! 


ven  !  Mercy  !  Oh  !  Oh  !  Oh  !— « 

(dies)  . 

Ferdinand.    ( Sinking  doivn  by  the  body )  An^el  of 

Heaven  !  fly  me  not  thus  Nor  leave  me  to 

madness  a  prey  ! 

President.  (Without)  Is  my  son  here  ?— 
Where  can  I  find  my  son  ? 

Scene  the  last. 
Enter  President. 

President.  {Ferdinand's  letter  in  his  hand.)  What 
can  this^ean,  my  son  ?  —I  hope  nor  

Ferdinand.  'Tis  now  too  late  to  hope — Mur- 
derer I  see  your  work — (pointing  to   the  body  of 

Louisa )  Gaze  on  her,  who  is  alas  !  no  more— 

\    She  was  my  sweet  Louisa — See  you  that  mild 

angelic  face  ?  It  was  the  mirror  of  truth  

There  fix  your  looks  How  lovely  is  she,  even 

in  death  ! — Attempered  to  the  ties  of  tenderness 

was  her  mind  Yet  my  father  has  deprived 

her  of  life  (in  agony)  Ha  !  'Tis  well — I 

feel  the  potent  draught. 

President.  My  son  ! — my  son  ! — Is  there  no 
remedy  ? 

Ferdinand.    None  None-  You  have  cast 

the  fatal  die  She'sleeps  alas  !  to  wake  no  more  ! 

President.  (Trying  to  take  Ferdinand's  hand) 
Your  hand,  good  Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand.  {Refuses  giving  his  father  his  handy 
shaking  his  head.) 

President    Who  so  miserable  as  I  am  ? 

Miller.  ('Behind  the  scenes. )  Louisa !  Louisa! 
my  child  !  my  child  ! 

Enter  Miller. 

Miller.    Where  are  you  my  girl  ? — Louisa, 

where  are  you  ?  They  talk  of  poison  poison  is 

the  cry — ( seeing  Louisa  dead,   he  shrieks  out ) 


102 


CABAL   AND  LOVE. 


Act  V* 


Who  has  clone  this  ! — My  only  one,  speak  ! — 
(receiving  no  answer,  he  takes  her  hand )  What  I— 1 

lifeless  ?—  Gracious  Powers  ! — • — Major  i  

explain. 

Ferdinand.    ( Pointing  to  the  President.)  Look  to 

my  father  for  Louisa's  life  He  tore  her  from 

me       He  could  not  bear  to  see  the  angel  live. 

Miller.  ( Falls  on  one  side  of  Louisa's  body, 
Ferdinand  being  on  the  other,  whence  he  does  not  move 
during  the  remaining  part  of  the  scene.  J 

Ferdinand.  (With  a  faint  voice  J  I  come  Louisa 
—soon  we  shall  be  again  united—No  power,  or 
time  will  part  us  then,  soon  we  shall  meet  in  those 
brighter  regions,  where  no  shaft  of  malice  can 

ever  reach  us  ( in  agony,  and  in  broken  accents ) 

Ha  ! — cruel  poison  !  'Tis  the  last  struggle. 

President*    My  dear  Ferdinand  1  Can  you 

forgive  your  wretched  father  ? 

Ferdinand.  My  moments  are  but  short 
( voice  more  and  more  exhausted  J  Why  should  I  dis- 
turb your  future  days,  by  witholding  my  forgive- 
ness ? — i — Take  it — (holding  his  father  his  hand  J 
And  so  may  Heaven  have  mercy  upon  me  ! — Ah 
Sir  ! — How  glorious  the  certainty,  that,  with  this 
my  act  of  reconcilement,  the  past  could  be  obliter- 
ated from  your  memory   But,  alas  !  I  fear 

'tis  otherwise  ordained  ;  and  that,  in  some  future 
day,  the  idea  of  her  ( pointing  to  Louisa's  corpse  J 
mournful  image  will  obstruct  all  peace — Before 
your  steps  her  faded  form  will  glide  ;  Her  dying 
moan,  alas!  will  strike  your  conscious  ear— (in 
agony)  Oh  ! — Oh  !  my  bursting  heart ! 

President.  ( Eagerly  kissing  Ferdinand's  hand J 
Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  ]  A  curse  on  my  ambi- 
tious views — A  curse  upon  my  former  unkindness. 

Ferdinand*  Think  not  of  it — ( sinking  J  Oh  !— 
Oh  !— Oh  ! — If  possible — Bright  be  your  remain- 
ing days  and  Heaven  grant*  that  you  may  happily 


Act  V, 


CABAL  AND  LOVE. 


103 


close  life's  finishing  scene  ! — But  my  father — * 
( pointing  to  Miller ) — forget— -not — that— broken 

hearted  man  You  have — robbed — him — of— 

his — all  He — is — old — and — poor  Need — I 

— say — more  ?— Oh  ! — Oh  1 — Oh  !— .That — pang 
is  the  last— Louisa — I— come — -Oh  ! — ■( dies ) 

President,  ( Kneeling  down  by  the  dead  body  of  hie 
son,) 

(The  curtain  falls  to  slow  music) 


e>id  or  the  secokb  volcise. 


